


the boy that stood by the sea

by CapnJack



Series: the boy that stood by the sea [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bartender!Killian, Captain Cobra - Freeform, Captain Cobra Swan, F/M, Modern AU, Swan Believer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnJack/pseuds/CapnJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian has been a part-time carer for Henry Cassidy for nearly five years now, over which time he has come to appreciate and value the balance it's brought to his mostly tumultuous existence. But when Neal remarries and brings someone new into their lives, he finds his precarious peace about to be disturbed forever. All he knows is this - no matter how the tides change, somebody has to fight for Henry's happiness. </p><p>(Which may well make Emma Swan the best damn thing that ever happens to them.)</p><p>Captain Cobra Swan. Loosely based on Henry James' 'What Maisie Knew'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely have not been able to get this out of my head - and boom, here is a 9k opener! 
> 
> this is part 1 of 3, and is very loosely based on the novel 'What Maisie Knew' by Henry James, with elements from the 2012 film adaptation thrown in. first and foremost, this is a fic about Henry. second and secondmost, it's CS AF. it's tagged with Neal/Emma because it includes Swanfire, but if that's the endgame you're looking for I'm afraid you won't find it here. third and finalmost, I'm putting in a slight tw for.. certainly not abuse, but perhaps what some could delicately consider dubious treatment of a child. some parents don't always get it right, even when they desperately want to.

This is _just_ like Neal.

“You don’t understand,” Killian tries to reason, “I’m not even supposed to be here, I have the week _off_. Henry’s father is supposed to be picking him up today.”

“Yet, as you can see — Henry is still here, and it is well past the end of the school day.”

It’s his sodding week off, and of course it only takes two days for his cell to light up with the familiar number from Hopper’s Elementary with a receptionist on the other side demanding to know why nobody has come to pick up Henry Cassidy after the final ring of the bell. Killian had jetted down there as fast as the Boston traffic would allow, but he only has his bicycle and there’s no chance in hell he’s letting Henry on it without a helmet. Not to mention he has a shift starting in thirty minutes and Neal still won’t answer his bloody phone. He’s probably at work and has completely forgot about the basic parental responsibility expected of him, he usually spaces when it comes to Henry if Killian isn’t around, but he’s still his _father_. There are certain things you don’t just forget — and Killian only started looking after the boy as a favour to an old friend with a busy professional schedule.

That was five years ago. Becoming an on-off live-in nanny for half of his income had never been the plan. Yet, here he is. 

“Miss Blanchard,” he begs, “I’m on my way to work, all I have is my bike. I _can’t_ take him. There has to be some other solution.”

Henry’s small hands begin to play with Killian’s fingers resting at his side as he hums quietly to himself. His heart melts for the six-year-old, and he finds himself crouching down so he can lift the boy into his arms — it isn’t Henry’s fault, it never is. The lad is always so good about being handed around like a sack of potatoes from sitter to Killian to sitter to Dad, bearing it with a staggering patience and grace for a child his age.

As much as Killian considers Neal a friend, that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t deserve Henry, or Henry’s good favour. Killian presses a kiss to the crown of his chestnut hair.

“I wish there was something I could do, Killian. Aside from calling social services and letting them deal with it there’s very little else within my power — we only rang you because you’re Henry’s emergency contact.”

Just at that moment, as Killian is trying to furiously think his way out of the dilemma, there is a quiet knock on the classroom door before it opens to reveal the most arresting woman he has ever laid eyes on. She steps hesitantly inside.

“Uh, sorry to — um. Neal Cassidy. He sent me to get his son?”

With long, lightly curled blonde hair that falls to her waist and frames a lovely, unblemished face with fierce green eyes, Killian finds whatever response he had been about to utter to Miss Blanchard dying instantly on his tongue. She’s wearing only a simple red jacket and jeans and he struggles to identify just what it is about her that takes his breath away — he’s not entirely unused to the objective attractiveness of women, after all. On closer inspection of the storming jade of her eyes he can detect a hardness to her stare. Although her expression exudes the sheepish timidity of one having walked in on a conversation they weren’t invited to, there is some sort of mask in front of it that snaps any semblance of emotional connection. It’s difficult for him to describe. He feels as if he is merely observing an impossibly detailed artist’s impression of the human face rather than the article itself. A person with a screen in the way.

She’s beautiful. 

But she’s also unfamiliar to him — and apparently she’s here for Henry. 

Killian’s arms tighten around the boy protectively, who is watching the stranger with interest in his keen brown eyes.

Miss Blanchard’s response is in direct contrast to the way Killian’s hackles have raised, and blesses the newcomer with a friendly smile. “And who might you be?”

The woman shrugs awkwardly, stepping fully into the classroom. “I’m, uh. I’m his — I’m sorta like Henry’s step-mom.”

 _That_ Killian hadn’t been expecting. 

His eyebrows climb all the way up to his hairline. As far as he’s aware Neal isn’t even seeing anyone, let alone getting married to people Killian hasn’t even met. Instinctively, his gaze drops to her left hand and there, clear as day, glints the familiar gold of a wedding band.

“I beg your — you’re — _what?_ ”

He must have heard her wrong.

“I’m married to Neal, yeah.” 

Killian can only stare at her in disbelief. While he fumbles for words, the woman turns her attention to the boy in his arms watching the proceedings unfold silently.

“Hey, Henry,” she waves tentatively, the corner of her mouth lifting in what she probably hopes looks like a reassuring smile. It doesn’t. Henry’s hand fists into the lapel of Killian’s jacket. “How’re you doing? I’m Emma, do you remember me? We met a few weeks ago?” 

They’ve met _once?_ Gods, help him.

“Hi Emma,” Henry says quietly, but Killian can feel his distress in the tightness of his grip.

Miss Blanchard shifts her weight, looking between the two adults with concern. “This is — this is highly unusual, Emma. We don’t just release children to anybody walking into the classroom.”

“Uh, no. No, of course not.”

Killian balances Henry on his hip, using his free hand to dial Neal’s number once more.

He doesn’t answer. 

Once the three of them step outside the air is still thick and uncomfortable; there is nothing Killian wants less than to leave Henry with a total stranger, but he has to get to the Rabbit Hole or Jefferson will put another mark on his record and he can’t afford that. And besides, if she really _is_ who she says she was then there probably isn’t a problem at all — if only Neal would answer his bloody phone. 

Killian places Henry down onto the sidewalk, gently brushing his hair from his eyes. 

“Am I going home now, Killun?”

Aside from his timid greeting of Emma, it’s the first thing Henry has said since his initial enthusiastic greeting of a frazzled Killian, fumbling with the straps of his bicycle helmet as he stormed into the classroom. 

He smiles faintly. “Aye, you’re going home, bug. Just give me a tick.” 

He straightens, watching Emma warily. Her hands twitch at her sides as if she were agitated, probably feeling as awkward as he is, before she stuffs them into the pockets of her red leather jacket. The blare of traffic is the soundtrack to their first exchange alone, cars charging past them on the street with horns drifting into the air with jagged, staccato leaps. Emma breaks their stalemate first.

“So who are you, anyway?”

“Killian Jones,” he says, “Henry’s sitter.”

Emma arches her eyebrow. “What, so I’m doing your job?”

It’s an attempt at humour, of levity. He doesn’t appreciate it. “It’s my day off.”

“Right. Uh, of course.” She’s on the back foot again when the joke doesn’t land, just like when she first walked into the classroom. The gentleman within him is desperate to throw her a rope so she might climb out of her discomfort, but he’s thinking of Henry — and perhaps he’s being somewhat unfair by displacing his anger at Neal Cassidy towards his new _wife_ , but he can’t help it. Henry’s father is supposedly his friend, he shouldn’t have to deal with this. Henry shouldn’t have to deal with this.

As if reading his thoughts, Henry’s hand reaches for his own and he links their fingers together as he too surveys Emma. Killian wonders what he’s thinking. 

Emma folds her arms then, adjusting her posture into something more guarded as she fixes on a mask of indifference to Killian’s icy attitude. 

“Look. I’m a stranger to you and I get that — just ring Neal and then he can confirm who I am and then we’re good, right?”

Killian scowls. “You ring him, I’ve been trying for half an hour. Maybe he’ll pick up for you.” 

Emma already has her phone out and scrolls only for a few moments before she lifts it to her ear. When Killian hears the familiar click of it being answered he barely stops himself from letting out a visibly frustrated noise. How the hell is he supposed to babysit the damn kid if his father keeps dodging his calls? It’s an admission of guilt, Neal not wanting to talk to him. And it’s goddamn childish.

“Yep. Uh huh, I’ve got him. I’m just with his sitter, Killian? He’s a bit — yeah. Hang on.” Emma holds out the phone towards him. “Here he is.” 

Killian lifts the handset to his ear. “You could’ve answered when _I_ was ringing you, prick.” Neal’s voice buzzes on the other end of the line. “Fine. Okay. If I miss out on my first hour’s pay you’re covering it.” At the brief acknowledgement he receives Killian hands the phone back to her.

She goes to continue speaking into her cell. “Okay, cool. So I’ll just bring Henry to… Neal?” Emma pulls it from her to ear examine the screen. _Call ended_. He watches the colour flood to her cheeks and realises she probably doesn’t want a witness to that particular dismissal so Killian averts his eyes, kneeling down to talk to Henry instead. Their relationship, their _marriage_ , isn’t his business, and if Neal didn’t trouble himself enough to tell him it happened in the first place then that was that. All Killian cares about is Henry. 

He pulls the lad into a brief hug. “Okay, sailor. You be good, yeah?”

Henry doesn’t want to let go, and Killian has to carefully extract his arms from around his neck so he can straighten, pulling up his bike from the sidewalk he’d dropped it on. 

Henry’s eyes are wide and frightened. “I don’t want to go with her.” 

“It’ll be alright, she’s just taking you to Daddy.”

“Can’t I come with you?” His voice his impossibly small and Killian’s heart stutters. Emma watches the exchange awkwardly.

Killian presses a kiss to the top of his head. “I don’t have a helmet for you, Henry. Next time.” 

“ _Please._ ”

He shakes his head as he lifts his leg over the side to straddle the bike. “Be a little gentleman for Emma, now. The Captain will know if you aren’t.” He taps his nose once and Henry nods dejectedly. Gaze drifting to Emma, he has to catch his breath when he finds her emerald stare already on him. He’s already anxious about the whole situation, but he can’t afford to waste any more time — he might stop in on the Cassidy’s after his shift, or tomorrow depending on how late it goes.

“Just…” he starts, but he can’t find the right words. “Don’t take your eyes off him for a second. He’s a wanderer.” With that, he pushes away from the kerb and out into moving traffic. He checks his watch. Ten minutes.

He tries not to look back.

-/-

“I had the situation under control — that’s why I didn’t pick up.” 

The flippant dismissal is standard Neal fare. 

“He’s your _son_ , Neal,” Killian insists. “There are only so many times he will let you let him down before he gives up on you altogether.” 

“Alright, parent of the year.” He lifts his hands in a placating gesture while he sets his jaw. “Remind me how many kids you have?”

Killian’s ears burn, but he refuses to let the comment put him on the spot.

“You only get so many years with Henry forgiving you so easily. Don’t waste them.”

At that moment, the door to his study is pushed open and the boy in question tumbles in. Neal’s expression immediately lights up and he opens his arms to lift Henry high into the air — the six-year-old squeals with delight as Neal presses wet kisses against his cheek. Henry wraps his arms tight around his father’s neck. 

“Daddy, did you really get married?”

“Uh huh,” Neal nods with a wide smile, stepping past Killian and carrying Henry out into the hall. “But I still love you the best.” 

Henry’s smile could have powered at least three blocks. 

“And you know she’s just… she’s just like a friend, yeah? You don’t have to call her Mommy. You can just call her Emma.” 

Killian has a lot of other choice names for her, but they aren’t any he can say in front of Henry.

“Did you have a ring bearer?”

“Oh, you know what?” Neal makes a show of looking immensely regretful. “If we had, it would’ve been you. But we kept it _really_ low-key,” this he punctuates with a tickle to the boy’s stomach. “We didn’t even have a cake.”

Henry is aghast. “No cake!” 

“No cake,” Neal repeats gravely. “Crap, isn’t it?”

That is enough for Killian. Most of the time he can work his way past it, but it’s hard to watch Henry with his father sometimes — they care about each other, that much is obvious. They just have very different ideas about what the father-son relationship should entail, and standing by and watching as Henry slowly readjusts his expectations to only a few shared meals a week, his dad being out of town regularly and some fancy presents on his return is painful.

 _Are you lonely?_ he had asked Henry once. The boy had simply giggled and urged Killian to join in with his play. 

“You’ve got to start being responsible, Neal,” he mutters darkly. Although his friend’s attention is on his son he knows the other man has heard him. “The teachers notice when you pull stunts like this. Keep on and you’ll lose custody.”

-/-

“Uh, hey,” comes Emma’s hesitant greeting when they cross paths in the hall. 

She’s dressed in a long, light sweater that scarcely reaches her mid-thigh. Although his mouth goes dry at the sight of her bare legs, it’s hardly the sort of clothing that should be worn with a small child in the house — it’s probably not deliberate, she’s clearly unused to being around children, but he’s already irritated and he can barely stop himself from lashing out.

“So — tell me. Was it a quickie at City Hall or an accident in Vegas?”

Her posture immediately changes. Straightening and folding her arms, she flips from uncertain to stony and defensive in seconds.

“I don’t think that’s any of your damn business.” 

Killian grits his teeth, letting the door slam shut behind him.

-/-

Getting married had seemed like such a good idea. 

A big “fuck you” to the system, a farce. A mockery of the institution that so many people poured so much of their lives into. She’d been seeing Neal casually for only a few weeks when he dropped the suggestion that they tie the knot, and she’d laughed for nearly a full fifteen minutes. It was only once she’d realised he was serious that she’d demanded an explanation for his reasoning. Lord knew she was aware she meant about the same to him as he did to her, which was as a worthy manner with which to pass the time but little more than that. 

Then he’d told her about his son. About how, apparently, the courts were urging him to introduce another parental figure into his life, how they’d voiced concern about the amount of time he spent away from home and away from the boy. Having Emma around would probably assuage their worries.

He’d been so entirely sincere when he’d said it, the reasoning was so unselfish, and the memories of the first eighteen years of her life growing up neglected and passed around parents who didn’t want her were still fresh enough that she had agreed. If she could play a part in making sure some kid got to stay with a dad who clearly loved him, then fine. She hadn’t been planning on marrying anyone else, anyhow, and she liked Neal well enough. True love and happy endings don’t exist, so marrying someone she liked _well enough_ seemed like as good an idea as any. She’s not taking his name and he’d already assured her if it didn’t work out it’d be easy enough to obtain a divorce. 

(Although there was a part of her that would always hope it could develop into something more. A real family. The goddamn princess inside her she’d been unable to shatter no matter how many times the world took a hammer to her.)

So there it was. Fuck you, matrimony. And Neal’s apartment is _so_ much nicer than her old one.

And Henry is a sweet kid. His babysitter’s a bit of a downer, but mercifully he’s only around some of the time. Apparently it’s been a lot less than usual given she can now be in the house while Neal is at work — god bless her night shifts. 

What she didn’t realise was that in some bizarre, ironic twist, spending time with Neal himself would become more difficult once they were bound in holy union. He works long days and goes on frequent business trips out of state that he insists she can’t join him on because of expenses, so for the first week of their sham of a nuptial she’s been twiddling her thumbs or accompanying him to the office with Henry so she might steal some time with him between meetings. It’s not exactly a perfect arrangement, but it is what it is. Neal’s charisma tends to buoy her when she’s in low spirits and make the moments he is around as enjoyable as she expects a marriage to him to be.

Henry takes to it like it’s normal, ferrying between the apartment and his father’s office on the weekend. Perhaps it is.

Emma watches him sat on the floor a few feet in front of her, some books with large lettering and a handful of crayons scattered across the surface of the coffee table, his little legs folded haphazardly beneath him as he hunches forward to draw. From her desk, Neal’s PA keeps frowning in their direction, probably not impressed with the greeting area for his clients being turned into an artist’s studio for the afternoon. Tough. Emma hadn’t really known what to do, it was a Saturday and Henry had been desperate to spend some time with his father who was being dragged into the office — his suggestion that they join him so he could come out and play between meetings had been well received. Unfortunately, his meetings are pretty much back-to-back with very little play time available. 

Henry seems pretty content, though. Emma reckons either he’s forgotten that they were here to see Neal through the blur of colour splashed across paper or he wasn’t really expecting his father to join them at all. 

Emma, though. Emma is _bored_. 

She cranes her neck to try and get a good look at what he’s drawing but Henry’s hunched form preserves his secrecy. The boy has scarcely had five conversations with her since she picked him up from school last week, and Emma can’t tell who is more to blame for it — understandably, Henry is shy and would much rather play by himself in his room than with a virtual stranger, and she has absolutely no idea how to engage a kid. 

How do you talk to them without sounding condescending? Is it okay to sound condescending? Do kids know when they’re being condescended to? Not to mention it’s been about fifteen years since she so much as picked up a toy.

Still, if she and Neal decide to stay married, she’s going to be a permanent fixture in his life. They’ll have to talk sometime. 

Biting the bullet, Emma slides off the sofa so she can settle herself beside him. He doesn’t immediately react, continuing to drag his crayon back and forth on the paper. 

Emma makes a show of leaning closer. “So, uh, what’re you drawing, kid?”

He doesn’t look up, but she detects the hint of a flourish in the way he lifts his crayon. “A castle.”

“A castle, wow,” she says sagely, “very uh, cool.” Was that too condescending? “Is it your castle?”

Henry gives her a look that suggests two spring onions have sprouted from her ears. 

“It’s Snow White and Prince Charming’s.” He points at one of the turrets as if it should have been immediately obvious. 

“Oh, I see. My bad.” Beside the castle Henry was just finishing the edge of a cape for a stick figure with a wide smile and a crown coloured a startling yellow. Emma points at it. “Is that Snow White?”

Henry crinkles his nose and shakes his head. “That’s the Evil Queen.” He frowns at the paper now as if Emma’s failure to recognise his drawings instantly is a reflection on his ability as an artist — Emma feels bizarrely compelled to reassure him.

“She looks kinda — I mean, she looks too nice to be the Evil Queen.” It’s the wide, friendly smile drawn in crooked black crayon that does it. 

“She’s not actually that evil,” Henry informs her matter-of-factly. “Just bad things have happened to her. She’s good really.”

Emma reckons that ‘she’s good really’ isn’t a particularly fitting character description for someone who’s supposed to be the villain, but she supposes this is one of those situations she’d be better surrendering to his superior knowledge. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d read a fairy tale.

“Ah,” she says, “so you kinda like the anti-hero thing then, right?” Henry seems to mull over this before deciding that yes, he does, nodding just once before returning to his work. 

Sensing this is something of a dismissal, Emma lets out heavy sigh. 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

True love and happy endings don’t exist. She’d take battling an Evil Queen at odds with herself over a fancy life in a castle any day.

She shuffles backwards, resuming her spot on the sofa as Henry continues to scratch his crayon across the table. After checking the time she realises it’s been four hours and they’ve seen Neal a grand total of once — her gaze strays to his office door and she ends up accidentally locking eyes with his PA. Tamara, she thinks her name is, and she’s startled by the dirtiness of the look the other woman is giving her. Perhaps also surprised at being caught out, Tamara hastens back to some paperwork on her desk. 

Henry has to be the best-behaved six-year-old on the planet, sitting quietly and not being a nuisance to anybody. He’s _just_ drawing. Talk about an overreaction. 

It’s while Emma’s thoughts are trailing off as she watches Neal’s office door that she feels the weight of something being dropped in her lap. Instantly looking down, she finds a book having been placed there by tiny hands and glances up to see Henry watching her expectantly. 

“Will you read it to me?”

The book is heavy and huge, and Emma realises this must be the reason Henry wears a rucksack almost as big as he is. Its cover is worn and frayed around the edges, the title _Once Upon A Time_ emblazoned across it in faded gold lettering — it’s clearly a well-loved tome, and she doesn’t miss the way Henry’s fingers linger gently at its spine.

For all intents and purposes, it feels like an invitation from the boy. An entryway into his world. For some reason a positive response won’t come, the words sticking in the back of her throat as she feels suddenly flattered by the request.

_For Christ’s sake, Emma. He just wants you to read to him._

“Daddy’s always too busy,” Henry continues speaking and she realises she hasn’t said a word since he asked, “will you read it?” He taps his right hand on the cover for effect. 

“Uh,” she says stupidly, “sure. Yeah.”

Without further preamble, Henry jumps onto the sofa beside her and lets his head drop to rest on her shoulder. Emma feels something warm blossom through her chest at the gesture. 

“Which story?”

“Snow White,” Henry informs her, reaching to turn the pages to the correct one already, “ _duh._ ” 

Emma laughs, eyes flickering to his abandoned drawing on the table. 

“Right, Snow White. Duh.”

-/-

“A shared custody arrangement?”

Killian has to sit down he’s so shocked by the suggestion. 

“Are you — are you serious?”

Neal’s sitting room had been the backdrop for many serious discussions about Henry over his short life, from how Neal could wrest custody from his rather unstable mother (a battle they had won) to decisions about which schools to send him to and even simpler things, like where to take him on one of Neal’s all-too-rare days off. 

(There were only ever two options, Franklin Park or the library. Those were the places that made Henry the happiest.)

But in all those six years, never in a _hundred_ years, had Killian thought Neal would suggest sharing custody of Henry between the pair of them. Henry was Neal’s son, that had always been the case, Killian was just a helping hand. A helping hand he’d soon had to start receiving payment for because of the amount of time he was giving up to aid in taking care of him, a helping hand that had quickly come to contribute to over half of his total income, a helping hand that had brought the endless joy and light of Henry Cassidy into his life.

“I’m deadly serious,” Neal says from where he’s sitting at the other end of the sofa, watching his friend carefully. He sighs heavily. “C’mon Killian, don’t act like it isn’t basically what we already have. I’m man enough to admit that he spends just as much time with you as he does with me. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

That Killian is certain of, but the monumentality of this step is overwhelming.

“But I’m not even a parent.”

Neal shrugs. “You love Henry, man. Just as much as I do. This would be just — putting a label on it. Sticking your signature in a few places, making sure everyone knows just as well as I do how much of a say you get over him. And if I’m honest,” he runs a hand through his hair, and Killian doesn’t miss the way his face falls ever so slightly, “if I’m honest making things a little more stable and official can only be good for him.”

“I couldn’t agree more, I just,” he flounders for some sort of response, “I’m flattered you think so highly of me.”

“It wouldn’t just be for you,” Neal says, even around his smile. “It pretty much kills me that most of the time Henry spends with me I’m not really there. Whether I’m away for a week or so or I’m taking him to work with me — it isn’t fair. And I was thinking,” he continues, leaning forward, “if you had him for say, ten days, and I just work mad overtime then I can probably free myself up a little bit more for when I have him, right?”

Killian has his doubts; Neal’s work has always been notoriously unforgiving, but it wasn’t just that either. Neal loves whatever obscure marketing position he’d found himself in and he loves the big fat pay check it came with even more — Killian is well aware that, occasionally, his priorities where his job and his family are concerned find themselves a little askew. But if Neal is optimistic, maybe he can be too. 

The pain is palpable in his tone when Neal speaks again. “I don’t want all his time with me to be associated with me working, Killian.”

It might be the most honest acknowledgement of how his schedule affects Henry he’s ever given. To Killian, it sounds like a victory. A step in the right direction. 

“Alright, say — say I agree to this, and we miraculously manage to clear a voluntary custody agreement with court, how would this work?”

Neal leans forward from his position in the armchair. “We can work out most of the details later, but I think of it like this. Instead of coming in for a few hours most days, staying overnight here whenever I’m not around or — or whatever our arrangement’s been for the past few years, we make it stable. Henry goes to you for ten days. You feed him, take him to school, you’re his guardian. Then he comes to me for ten days, but you’re not about at all. I’ve got Emma now who can watch him when I’m at the office, she works nights and her shifts are really flexible if for some reason I can’t make it home. Then that week you can probably be a little more efficient with your time, pick up some more hours at the Rabbit Hole, I dunno. Whatever you want. In ten days’ time you pick him up again.”

Killian rubs a hand across his brow, mulling over the suggestion.

“How does that sound?” Neal prompts.

Looking after Henry full time, being legally recognised as his guardian. Not having to keep a constant eye on his cell in case it rings and he has to rush around to make sure the boy is supervised or being picked up from school on time.

Meaning something to Henry, to the boy who had practically lifted him up from his horror and his pain single-handedly by just being his wonderful, kind, generous self; meaning something to Henry on paper. It’s not the sort of decision that takes too long to reach an answer for.

Killian lets out a long breath. After a few moments, his expression breaks into a wide smile.  
“It sounds bloody brilliant.”

-/-

It isn’t. 

Bloody brilliant, that is.

It’s hard work. Henry radiates energy at a rate Killian can scarcely keep up with, and his first week as a full-time parent involves tantrums, tears and a lot of sulking on behalf of the six-year-old. It had only taken a month or so to clear it through the court and Henry had been excited beyond belief at the idea of living with ‘Killun’ for a week; his enthusiasm had quickly waned once the reality of the arrangement hit him on day two and he demanded Killian take him to the office to see his father instead of to school.

Henry was homesick, but that was okay. Kilian was well-versed in dealing with a Henry-tantrum, and he’d endure a whole storm of them for the way he drifts off to sleep on the sofa in front of cartoons or how he’ll smile at the simplest of joys and it lights up his entire apartment.

He loves Henry with a fierceness that is almost frightening to him. 

It’s what makes it so tough when he has to drop him off at Neal’s at the end of day ten, well aware he won’t see him for another ten days. It’s the longest he’ll go without seeing him since he was two-years-old. 

Emma is the one who answers the door, as stunning as she had been the day they met even in just sweats and a t-shirt, but she barely has time to inform him Neal isn’t home yet before Henry has grabbed Emma’s arm and dragged her into the sitting room so he might show her one of the souvenirs he’d acquired during his final day with Killian.

They’d visited Franklin Park — it was a bit of a treat, really. After a week fraught with its share of highs and lows, he'd wanted Henry to remember the past few days positively, as it’d hopefully make him a little less resistant to Killian when the time came to switch around again. 

(It was basically bribery. Henry’s face as he animatedly demonstrates his new crocodile figurine opening its jaws to Emma makes it more than worth it.)

“Tell Emma what else you did today Henry,” he suggests, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards as he watches Emma’s expression attempting to match Henry’s enthusiasm for the crocodile.

“We… went to the zoo!” Henry declares.

Killian laughs indulgently. “She knows that, bug. You haven’t stopped gabbing on about it for hours.”

Henry looks offended at the suggestion. “Not _hours,_ ” he insists with a whine. 

“Hours and hours and hours,” Killian continues, waving his hand around. Truthfully it’s only been long enough for Emma to make him a cup of tea but with Henry’s mouth moving at a mile a minute the entire time he makes it easy to tease him about it.

Henry makes a show of looking cross. “ _No._ ”

“But go on, tell Emma. We went to the zoo and then we went to…” he prompts. 

“Oh!” Henry smacks his forehead as if he’s annoyed he could have forgotten it, and Emma throws her head back with laughter at the action. It’s a nice sound, soft and warm. It makes Killian’s cheeks hurt from how widely his grin stretches. 

“Then we went to the science museum and it was _so_ cool and they had these planes and they were like _this_ big and Killun said I couldn’t reach the wings even if I was on his shoulders but then I could and then he kept making funny faces at the pilots and there was all this stuff about space and there are over _two thousand_ satellites around the Earth and — oh!” Henry suddenly stops, pausing for breath. “I said I’d show Killun my rocket! Wait!”

The demand is met with Henry charging over to Killian to briefly place his hand on his thigh as if the action was the only thing that would stop Killian sneaking away while he was out the room. “Wait,” he says again.

“I’m waiting,” Killian insists with a laugh. Satisfied, Henry sprints towards his bedroom, leaving the pair of them alone. 

Emma speaks first. “Busy day, huh?”

“The busiest,” Killian says, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Damn kid naps when we’re en route like a nuclear recharge. I’m not afforded the same luxury as I’m the one who has to navigate Boston traffic.” Not to mention he always cycles extra carefully when Henry is belted into the bike seat, which could sometimes do as much as double his journey time. How the lad manages to fall asleep so quickly in the middle of such a noisy area is completely beyond his comprehension. 

“The zoo _and_ the science museum, though?” Emma arches an eyebrow, leaning back into her chair and folding one leg over the other. “You know you’re setting the bar pretty high, right?”

Killian grins. “What’s co-parenting without a little competition for the child’s affection, anyhow?”

This remark is blessed by a smile and it’s like a diamond of the first water.

Although they’d had a somewhat shaky start, he and Emma are more than capable of acting civil to each other and over the past month and a bit he’s gotten to know her a little better than his snap judgements at the school that first afternoon had afforded. She’s funny and she’s smart and he can see why Neal likes her, but by far his favourite thing about her is her smiles. She drops them with a rarity that makes him want to actively pursue them and the way her dimples lift her cheeks into rounded apples, lightly coloured with a warm flush.

Emma Swan looks beautiful when she smiles. 

(And when she doesn’t.)

That said, he’s quite grateful this arrangement will probably limit their interactions to just drop off and pick up days — it saves him from letting his thoughts run wild and thinking things about the stunningly gorgeous wife of one of his oldest friends he has absolutely no right in thinking. The back of his neck still floods with colour when he remembers the day he saw her in just the jumper, all adorable rumple and dark allure with her long, bare legs on show. 

He has a bit of a crush, he can admit that. It’ll go away. After Milah they usually didn’t last long. He’ll just have to wait this one out, that’s all.

-/-

“Imagine that,” Neal says, lips dropping to press gently against the base of her throat. “Alone at last.”

Emma had been promised a day with no distractions, no work commitments and no demands on their attention aside from each other, as husband and wife, and some much needed time alone. With her working late nights and Neal even longer days, snatching moments in between their schedules has been near impossible — she can’t even remember the last time they had sex. So when Neal had assured her he would be taking the day off work so they could just spend some time together she’d been eager to agree. That was what she’d been promised. 

It isn’t what she got, though.

“We’re not really alone, Neal,” she points out, turning her attention back to the carrots she is chopping on the kitchen counter in front of her, “your kid is home.” 

Hopper’s Elementary had closed that morning due to a burst water main, and the message had been circulated to every family that the children not brought in unless it is entirely unavoidable, such as inability to find a sitter. Killian, now halfway through his week off, is apparently unreachable.

So Henry, thrilled to be granted a Thursday off school, is sat in the lounge doing some colouring.

His father is in the kitchen attempting to lure his wife into something a little dirtier.

“He isn’t listening,” Neal points out, arms snaking around her waist, “Henry’s got homework to do.”

Emma finds herself leaning away from his touch. “Shouldn’t somebody be watching him?”

“He’s fine, Emma,” Neal assures, releasing her so he can spin her around. “Now will you please let me at least _try_ and give you the day I promised you?”

His hand trails down her back to rest on her ass and she gasps at the touch, immediately arching into him as her arms link around his neck. Neal chuckles, a deep sound she can feel reverberating in his chest and he swoops down to capture her lips with his. For a few moments Emma lets herself get swept up in the sensation of their mouths slanting together — kissing Neal is familiar, it’s something they’ve done for hours upon hours in her apartment in the weeks leading up to their ‘wedding’, but she feels the desire pooling in her gut is likely far more to do with the reminder his kisses bring. She associates them with that eventual satisfaction, a sex-addled conclusion, and after a considerably long dry spell all she can think about is getting off to the feeling of somebody inside her. Her body is already psyching herself up for it. 

But then she thinks about Henry, sat innocently not twenty feet away, colouring silently. She thinks of his patiently sketched castles and turrets and the Evil Queen who is good really and her mood shatters entirely. 

Emma breaks away, pulling back from Neal. Immediately he leans forward to follow into her space but she bends back further, placing her hands firmly on his chest. 

Neal’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

Emma shrugs helplessly. “It’s just — it’s Henry. It feels — weird.”

“C’mon Ems,” he turns his eyes skyward, arms tightening temptingly around her. “I haven’t had the pleasure of my wife’s company in _weeks_. The kid’s six. We could tell him we were just making tacos in bed and he’d believe it.”

Emma does feel a smile tug at the corner of her mouth at that, and Neal takes it as an invitation. He stretches back in to kiss her but at the last second she turns her head, so his lips only brush the shell of her cheek. 

“It doesn’t feel right.” 

It doesn’t. 

Irritably, Neal drops his arms. “Fine, fine. I get it.” He does, she can see it in the curve of his brow — Neal is the parent here, he understands just how weird it is. She can just sense his libido is a little stronger than hers, possessing the power to overlook this little setback. Hers isn’t. His frustration is palpable in his jerky movements as he pulls away from her completely, stalking over to the refrigerator to examine its contents. 

Over his shoulder, he throws, “Just see if I take a day off for you again soon, hm? I can’t afford to.”

It feels oddly like a threat or a jibe, and it makes Emma bristle. Neal doesn’t look back in her direction. Feeling slightly bereft, Emma departs the kitchen to head to the sitting room instead. 

There Henry is, contentedly filling pages upon pages of crooked stick figures with matchbox swords and neon crowns. He looks up at her as she walks in, something expectant in his chestnut brown eyes. 

For a moment, Emma is totally at a loss.

In the end she asks, “you hungry, kid?” 

Henry just beams.

-/-

Later, while she and Neal sit on opposite ends of the couch, Henry stands in front of them with an old exercise book and a full day’s work resting open in his hands. 

“… and they all lived happily ever after.”

Immediately, Emma lets out a loud holler and claps her hands together wildly. That’s the most important thing, right? Encouragement? It’s how she tackles most of her interactions with Henry — she thinks about what it would have been like to have somebody cheer her on, even if it was somebody who wasn’t her real family. She considers the difference it might have made, and that’s the kind of impact she wants to have on Henry Cassidy. A positive one.

And even if it weren’t about that, part of her is in awe of this kid’s imagination. With nothing but time on his hands he had set about constructing his own fairy-tale, a creative tale about the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, Henry’s favourite characters. 

He’d also named that character _Emma_. 

Her heart wanted to melt in her chest.

“That was awesome, Henry!” 

Henry receives her praise with a brimming joy, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he hugs the book close to his chest, but it isn’t long before his attention turns to his father. Emma does the same, her grin pulling at her expression as she waits for Neal’s echo of her sentiments. When she looks at him, though, she doesn’t see the immediate encouragement she expected. Instead his expression is neutral as he looks between the pair of them. 

Okay, so it was a story written by a six-year-old. It wasn’t winning any Pulitzers, but _what was he doing?_ Couldn’t he see this kid was desperate for his approval, hanging on his every word? 

Neal ran a hand through his hair, his expression neutral. “And what am I, invisible?”

Henry’s smile falters, and Emma is astounded. Neal smiles, but it isn’t warm. He throws a side-along look at Emma. 

“You know you don’t get a bonus for making him fall in love with you.”

Emma’s jaw drops. Her gaze drops, and her cheeks begin to burn.

Neal turns his hazel eyes back to his son. “Why don’t you go play in your room for a bit, Hen. So Emma and I can talk.”

Henry looks uncertainly between the two of them, his tight grip on the exercise book faltering as it drops to his side. Emma can’t even meet his eyes, there’s something like shame lingering near her and she can’t tell what it’s for. On Henry’s behalf, that Neal had been so dismissive of his work, or that he had made her praise seem so — so _disingenuous_.

Eventually he scampers away, discarding the book at the door to his bedroom. 

Emma is almost furious.

“I haven’t got an ulterior motive, Neal,” her tone is filled with steel. “I’m just supporting your kid.” 

“Then why have you got to undermine me while you do it?”

“Under — under _mine_ you? What the _fuck_ , Neal?”

He looks irritated but his jaw locks and he refuses to add any extra comments to his argument. It’s as if he knows he’s being petty, but it’s more than that — is he _jealous?_

Emma stands, disgusted. “You’re going to go in there and tell Henry that was the best damn story you’ve ever heard, got it?”

“Don’t tell me how to raise my kid.”

“Then fucking _raise him_.”

-/-

Even later, Henry is playing with the crocodile Killian bought for him, making croaking noises along the edge of his cabinet as it peruses for its next victim when Neal walks in. 

At first he doesn’t say anything, merely nestles himself on the ground with the exercise book clutched tightly in his hand. Henry, who had paused in his play as his father entered, resumes just as soon. 

“ _Raaarrr_ ,” he says, biting the neck of one of his soldiers. 

Neal’s vision swims, and his breath has been completely stolen from him. Sometimes he forgets Henry is a miracle. His miracle. His little man.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly, and Henry watches him from the corner of his eye. “I don’t know when I became this uh,” he takes a steadying breath and fights to keep his tone even, “this petty.”

Henry’s crocodile continues to crawl along the cabinet.

“I just wanted to make life easier for us, y’know? Do you understand?”

This time Henry’s eyes flicker to his, but he still doesn’t respond. Perhaps he has no idea how to, maybe he has no idea what the hell Neal is going on about. The kid is six. Sometimes he can’t tell if today is the day Henry has woken up and realised he’s the biggest asshole there is.

So instead his eyes drop to his knees, knuckles tightening around the exercise book as something wet begins a slow crawl down his cheek. 

“I thought your story was really cool, Henry.” 

For a few seconds the words float heavily in the air between them, before Henry discards his crocodile to step over to him. In moments, he’s crawled into Neal’s lap and has wrapped his little arms around his necks, kissing the tear away from his skin with a tenderness that makes him want to sob harder.

“Thank you, daddy,” he says, and his smile is warm and understanding and more than he deserves. 

_You only get so many years with him forgiving you so easily. Don’t waste them._

His arms tighten around the boy, determined — he won’t. 

-/-

While there are multitudes of benefits to this new arrangement, such as Killian being able to pick up far more day shifts at the Rabbit Hole and allowing himself to insert a little regularity into his routine, there are just as many foreseeable downsides. Killian can’ always take a whole week off work to care full time for Henry — on these nights he usually leaves him with his good friend Robin and his son Roland. Henry particularly enjoys wowing the younger boy with the advances in wisdom his extra two years on the planet have afforded him, such as which primary colours are mixed to make orange or green and which fairy-tale character each person in his life resembles. 

(Apparently Killian is Captain Hook. It’s probably just the British thing, but he’ll take it.) 

But some nights, like tonight, Robin is on shift too. This usually happens when a couple people have called in sick (it almost always includes Will ruddy Scarlet, about as reliable as a career politician) and it’s all hands on deck as Jefferson calls in every employee he has at his disposal. These are the nights Killian curses the fact that he has so few friends, as with not enough time to acquire a sitter he has little choice but to bring Henry to work with him. 

Henry _loves_ these nights.

“One raspberry lime rickey for my favourite little sailor, on the house.” With a flourish, Killian places the drink on a napkin in front of the boy. It was basically just sugar, _definitely_ without the vodka, but the vivid red of the liquid delighted Henry to no end. A few patrons sitting beside the boy laugh indulgently as he eagerly slides the glass a little closer, kneeling up in his seat so he can wrap his lips around the provided straw. 

Turning his attention to Henry’s new neighbours, Killian asks, “you don’t mind if he sits here, do you?”

They each wave him off with amused glances at Henry’s loud slurping. That’s one of the things he loves about the patrons of the Rabbit Hole — for the most part, they’re fairly polite. And often very patient when it comes to Henry’s inquisitive questions about the conversations he snoops in on. He’s a great listener, which is why Killian is careful to entice him with colourful drinks to lure him away from conversations he deems far too mature for a six-year-old to be eavesdropping on. In a bar, it’s bound to happen. 

(He’s had one too many occasions with Will filling Henry’s head with questions he later repeats that make Killian blush to the roots of his hair. Somehow, he suspects that’s Will’s intention.)

Killian spots Jefferson, the landlord, waving him over from the side of the bar, and after asking Robin to keep an eye on Henry he sidles over. 

“Look,” his boss starts, never one to waste a word, “I love Henry, you know I do, but it’s not really appropriate for him to be here.” 

“I know, I know,” Killian holds up a placating hand with the good grace to look sheepish — he knows a bar is no place for a child. He just didn’t have any other option. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find anyone to watch him.”

Jefferson, a single parent himself, visibly softens, although Killian can tell he’s trying to keep a sternness to his posture. 

“And those fancy drinks are coming out of your own pocket and not mine, I take it?”

“Aye, absolutely,” Killian assures him. 

Jefferson throws one more glance in Henry’s direction, chattering animatedly to a young couple sitting beside him. Finally, he turns back to Killian. “Maybe just let me know next time, then I can arrange for Grace’s minder to babysit upstairs instead of at her place. I’m sure she’d be happy to take care of Henry too.”

It takes considerable effort for Killian not to lean forward and kiss him. Instead he claps his boss on the shoulder, who flinches at the unexpected contact. Killian just can’t help expressing his gratitude. 

“Thanks, Jeff. That would be amazing.”

Having somewhere a little more suitable was ideal, even if Henry wouldn’t find it nearly as fun. Killian has a suspicion that sitting at the bar makes him feel more like a grown up, especially when the other adults engage him. 

After returning to his spot behind the bar and reaching for a cloth to wipe it down, one of the women in the young couple Henry had been speaking to turns to him. She and her partner are regulars, and he’s pretty certain her name is Dorothy. 

“Your son is adorable,” she gushes. 

Killian feels his heart sink a little, smile faltering. “Oh, he’s not…”

Her expression immediately morphs into one of apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“No, no,” Killian waves her off, trying to smooth the crinkle in his brow. “Not to worry, lass. Our arrangement _is_ a little peculiar.”

His eyes, filled with mirth at the forced jest, search for Henry’s but Killian finds his haze has dropped to the napkin in front of him, his tiny hands slowly shredding it into even tinier pieces. He has no idea if Henry witnessed the exchange, and not for the first time he longs to ask him what he is thinking. The lad has a way of shutting down and not letting anybody puzzle him out, hiding behind his storybook or a toy and retreating into himself. 

Killian wonders if he ever thinks about things being different. About the life he himself has no right thinking about, about one where he doesn’t have to tell people he _isn’t_ Henry’s father. 

About a life where Henry has a father who makes him a priority.

Wanting nothing more than to lift the dark cloud from surrounding the boy’s head, Killian taps the counter in front of him twice. 

Henry immediately looks up. “Watch this.” Killian grins. 

He reaches for one of the cherries from the bowl behind the bar, tosses it into the air and catches it in his mouth. 

Henry lets out an awed noise, clapping his hands in delight and immediately demands a go. Killian laughs and drops a few cherries onto the bar, watching the boys not-quite-developed coordination levels fail miserably at catching a single one of them. 

They try a few more, even tossing them to each other to the amusement of the surrounding patrons, cheering when any of them make their mark, before a few customers demanding service draw Killian away again.

Out of the corner of his eye he can still see Henry with his mouth wide open as he tries to catch another cherry.

Henry loves these nights. 

And maybe Killian does a little, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two, at a whopping >10k! thank you to everybody who has read and left kudos or a comment, they really buoy me up and I can honestly say they make the words come faster. tw for minor character death and the same warnings from the previous chapter apply. I hope you guys like this one!

By the time Killian throws open the door to his apartment, his entire body is thrumming with fury. 

“What sort of time do you call this?”

He feels a modicum of his ire drift away when he realises it’s not Neal standing on the other side, but Emma, looking suitably chastened as she stares up at him through her lashes. The curve of her mouth is turned downwards, a crease tugging her eyebrows together, but Killian refuses to let it affect him. He is _pissed_. And he has a damn good reason to be.

“I call it ten o’clock at night and three days late,” Emma says, wincing a little as she does. 

“Good,” Killian hisses, “then at least we’re on the same bloody page.”

Neal was supposed to come pick up Henry three days ago. Instead, the pair of them had been met with a radio silence from Cassidy senior and Killian struggling to explain why they were unpacking Henry’s suitcase for the third night in a row, only to optimistically repack it together the next day. He had no idea what to tell Henry, who took it all in with cryptic looks at the door and a rigid focus on his play. Killian has no idea what he’s really been thinking.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” Emma keeps her voice low, although she is at something of a loss seeing as he makes no move to invite her inside, and folds her arms across her chest. She looks as contrite as he’s ever seen her. “It was a friend of mine and Neal’s, he had a bit of a crisis. Well, three crises I guess.” 

Finally Killian relents, pushing the door open wider so Emma can step over the threshold. 

His irritation hasn’t waned. “There is always a crisis with Neal,” he grouses. Always some excuse, always unavoidable circumstances that aren’t his fault. Half the time Killian wonders if he even realises how little he ever takes the blame for. “You know what would have been nice?” he continues in a clipped tone. “A phone call. Or a text message. Or an answer to any of the numerous phone calls or text messages _I_ sent _him_.” 

Emma leans forward to peer around Killian as if Henry might magically materialize. Instead she’s met with the dimmed corridor of his apartment, light from the kitchen casting long shadows through the doorway across the laminated floor.

“Can I take him now?”

Killian bristles, glancing over his shoulder at the door to Henry’s bedroom. “He caught the flu yesterday morning,” he informs her, keeping his voice scarcely above a murmur lest they accidentally wake the boy. “You’d be better off letting him sleep.”

Emma bites her lip. “He can sleep in my car.”

Killian shakes his head urgently. “Emma, he has a temperature of well over a hundred. What he needs right now is some undisturbed rest.”

“I can’t go home without him,” Emma insists helplessly, “Neal will have a fit. He’s travelling to Hawaii for about two weeks tomorrow and he wants to see Henry before he goes.”

“Well if he’d pick him up on the correct day, the day we both _agreed_ on, we wouldn’t have this problem,” Killian bites back, that familiar frustration coursing through him unable to censor itself to her. “And you know what? I’m tired of this arrangement taking advantage of me. I am not a bloody dumping ground for when it’s inconvenient for Neal to look after his son, it’s not why I agreed to this.” With every word he sees Emma shrink further into herself, but he’s been bursting at the seams to say this for months now. “I have a life, I have a _job_. I’ve had to find cover for my shifts for days.”

“I know,” Emma tries, her emerald eyes downcast and her posture rigid. “I know, I’m sorry. I really am. Neal can be…” 

Killian never learns just what Neal could be, as at that moment a creak echoes through the hallway and light spills across the floorboards, Henry Cassidy silhouetted in the doorway to his room with one hand clutching a worn teddy bear and the other resting on the handle. Both adults immediately turn to look at him. 

“Emma?” he asks, one tiny hand brushing the sleep from his eyes.

Emma’s expression immediately softens. “Hey, kid. I hear you’re not feeling too great.”

Henry nods his head slowly and Killian’s heart melts. “I have to drink medicine every two hours.”

“You should be in bed, bug,” he points out, and begins to cross the hallway to where the little boy is standing.

“I thought I heard Emma,” he protests, “I want to tell her about my new story.”

Killian’s hands reach under Henry’s shoulders and he lifts him easily into his arms, the boy’s head lolling onto his shoulder tiredly. “You can tell her all about it tomorrow, once you’ve had some sleep.” Henry mumbles a protest, but his eyes are already drooping as Killian carries him back into his bedroom. He can hear Emma uncertainly following them. “Sailors don’t get over scurvy by climbing the rigging, do they?”

Killian drops him on the edge of his bed with the intention of placing him back under the covers, but Henry fusses and refuses to be put down, perching on the edge of the quilt and throwing Killian dirty looks every time he tries to get him back into bed. He keeps wriggling free and Killian, something tired and heavy lurking near his expression, merely sighs and stands.

When he steps back over to the doorway Emma makes to walk inside, but he bars her path with an arm across the frame and fixes her with a hard stare.

“Don’t take him tonight,” he urges quietly, “please.”

Emma bites her lip. “But Neal…”

“What Neal wants and what Henry needs don’t always align as perfectly as we’d like, love.” 

Emma meets his gaze with just as much force and eventually Killian relents, reluctant to let her carry the boy away. He’s spent most of the day wrapped in a blanket watching cartoons or playing board games with Killian, nose running and cheeks flushed, feverish and on the verge of the tears. The last thing he needs is to be picked up in the middle of the night and carted off to Neal’s apartment, and he’s tried to convey this to Emma as best he can. 

Maybe Neal’s priorities are sometimes a little skewed, but Emma? Maybe Emma is someone he can get through to. 

Emma steps into the room and kneels beside the bed, brushing some of Henry’s hair gently from his eyes. They stare at each other, and after a beat of silence Emma merely lifts the duvet and nods for him to slip inside. To Killian’s surprise, he does so without protest and Emma tucks the blanket right up to his chin. 

“Good night, Henry,” she says softly. “I’ll see you in a few days, okay?”

Killian’s heart is stuttering at dangerous intervals. 

Henry sighs heavily. “And then I can tell you about my story?”

Emma grins. “You’re a right little author, aren’t you?”

“This is my best one,” Henry insists. “It’s about you.” 

Emma’s smile blooms wider as she reaches a finger out and taps his noise. 

“I can’t wait to hear it.” 

Once she’s stood and walked out of the room, Killian swings the door shut behind him so they’re alone in the hallway once more.

He feels almost overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude. “Thank you, Swan.” 

She nudges him lightly in his side. “Hey, you’re the hero here. Just let me know if you guys need anything.”

Once Killian assures her that of course he’ll inform her, she steps out of his apartment and into the night, red jacket wrapped tight around her shoulders. 

It’s not like he’s never spoken to Emma alone before. It’s just he’s never really thought of her as a separate entity from Neal, capable of making her own decisions about what’s best for Henry — he can’t help the way he’s already started brimming with optimism, thinking on a future where they can operate as a team, caring for the boy together and not as two independent units. 

More than anything, the reason it takes him so long to drift back to sleep that night is he can’t shake the mirage of the jade of her eyes imprinted onto the back of his eyelids. 

-/-

Objectively, Killian Jones is an attractive man. 

This is an observation Emma has made based on a combination of important factors, such as his mussed raven hair and the dusting of day-old scruff around the edge of his jaw. Also his sense of style, always opting for tight button ups that tend to display his assets with enthusiasm, occasionally partnered with a waistcoat or leather jacket. The amount of care that goes into his seemingly dishevelled appearance. His British accent. His sense of humour. The way he is with kids — specifically, the way he is with Henry Cassidy. All warmth and tenderness and care, always listening to his every whim with the same gravity as if he were speaking to somebody twice his age.

Objectively, Killian Jones is an appealing specimen of the male form. 

(Subjectively, too.)

Because there’s something about his raven hair and day-old scruff and dress sense and wit and the way he is with Henry Cassidy that definitely does things for her.

Hypothetically. 

As in, if they were living different lives and she weren’t, in fact, a few months into a marriage with the father of the kid he currently shares custody with, Killian Jones would be right up her alley. 

It’s not something she realised instantly; to be truthful she found him a bit of a stick in the mud at first, back when she knew nothing about raising a kid and that constant state of anxiety that came with them wandering for a few moments out of sight. Since Henry has slowly begun to let her into his life she is just starting to realise where this concern stems from. And this aside, he is actually remarkably laid back. He has an easy humour and a gentle temperament and it’s very easy to see why Henry Cassidy basically worships the ground he walks on. 

Killun _this_ and Killun _that_ , and Killun said this and Killun let me do that. Killun, Killun, Killun. 

Emma reckons she sees Killian Jones more than she sees her own husband. 

Killian Jones with his objectively attractive smile and deep, blue eyes that glimmer temptingly with mirth and a little something else she can’t quite place. 

It’s a dangerous place for her thoughts to wander. 

Thankfully, Henry is doing his very best to secure her in the present. 

Neal had managed to postpone his business trip for just a day so he could still get a chance to see Henry before he left, picking him up from Killian’s apartment the next day and remarking on how much healthier he looked before taking him home. It had been nice, seeing Neal with Henry. Emma so rarely does, and it’s clear Henry enjoyed the attention almost five times as much as she did witnessing it. 

But Neal has been gone for 90 minutes now, and Emma and Henry have been left alone with the next 10 days to fill. She’s already arranged the time away from her job, a small delivery business that operates mostly at night, and for all intents and purposes this is her first week as a full-time carer. 

(She doesn’t want to think about the ‘m’ word. It brings up a lot of feelings she is not quite ready to face.) 

From across Neal’s sitting room, Henry sits with his legs crossed underneath him, his elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands, watching her intently. Emma, spread out across the sofa, stares right back. Henry’s eyebrow aches slowly and she doesn’t have to think too hard about where he learnt that particular gesture, but Emma can’t shake the feeling this kid is _challenging_ her. 

What was it Killian usually did with him? Museums, or something? 

_What’s co-parenting without a little competition for the child’s affection, anyhow?_

If Henry wanted fun, he’d sure as hell get it. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Emma’s mouth, one she can already see Henry begin to mirror.

“Get your coat,” she says, and Henry cheers. 

-/-

So maybe it’s not educational or sensible, but it’s the best damn pizza in Boston and the place they filmed that bench scene in Good Will Hunting and Henry’s amusing himself by tossing crusts to the ducks and counting how many swans begin to drift across the water. It may not be everything he gets with Killian Jones, but Emma hasn’t bothered to come out here in years and for her, this is a start. 

“Seven!” he gapes, like it’s the single most incredible thing he has ever seen. “Seven swans!”

“Say it, don’t _spray_ it,” Emma laughs, using her sleeve to wipe some crumbs from his chin. Henry merely grins innocently in response. She leans back on the bench, chewing a mouthful of her own slice and watching the slow movement of guests in the park. 

“Y’know, someone once told me that when ducks swim, they look like they’re riding on little bikes underwater.”

Henry turns back to the lake, and she can spot the moment his eyes zero in on a duck and watch its waddling movement from side to side as it glides across the surface of the lake, and he bursts out laughing. 

“It does!” He points, standing from the bench as if it might give him a better look. “It does!” He falls back down with a _whoosh_. “Killun has a bike,” he informs her. 

“I know,” Emma says. “Big blue one, yeah?”

“Sometimes he lets me ride on it but I have to go on the back because my feet don’t reach the pedals. But I get to ring the bell.”

“Wow,” Emma grins, “lucky you.”

They finish eating in silence, Henry taking a few generous bites of her slice (just to test out the flavour, he promises) before he brushes his little hands on his trousers and hops to his feet. Killian wasn’t kidding about the nuclear recharge. 

“Can we go see the books?”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“The books,” he repeats, as if it should be obvious. 

“Oh,” she realises what he might mean, “like the library?”

Henry nods emphatically. “Yes! Can we go?”

Emma can’t think of any reason why not, and it’s not like she had any real plan for the day. “Sure,” she tells him, standing and smoothing out her jeans. It’s not exactly her cup of tea, but if it’s what Henry wants to do then she’s fine with it. “Let’s go see the books.” 

She takes a few steps along the path before realising Henry hasn’t fallen into step beside her. She turns around to find him standing where she’d left him, an expectant hand outstretched toward her and a patient expression on his face. 

Henry waves his hand towards her. “You have to hold my hand.” 

Emma blinks. At her blank look, he elaborates. 

“Killun always holds my hand when we go to see the books.”

“Oh, right.” After a moment’s hesitation she crossed back over to him and he slips his tiny fingers between hers, clutching tightly even as her hand dwarfs his. “Sure thing.”

Henry’s hand is warm and delicate. Soft in a way she isn’t expecting. She finds herself unable to stop looking at him, humming happily to himself as he skips along at her side, allowing her to hold onto him like the only anchor she has in a vast, changing sea.

-/-

“You just got back,” she says, and she tries to keep the accusation out of her voice. She doesn’t control him, no one does. The only one who ever comes close is hovering near the doorway, she can almost feel his little ears pointed in their direction. 

“I know,” Neal says, and his expression is pained, “if I could avoid it, you — you know I would, right?”

“I know.” She _thinks_ she knows, anyway.

But when he presses a hesitant kiss to the space beside her ear she accepts it with her posture rigid as stone, shoulders set and lashes brushing lightly against the oval of her cheek. Neither of them are satisfied.

They sleep with a foot of empty air between them, clawing for the blanket to cover both of them like it can hide that which they fail to. 

Sometimes Henry sleeps in that space, burrowed into his father’s side. 

Those are the nights where the light breaks through. Those are the nights she can bear.

-/-

They always run into each other by accident. 

Killian had been wheeling his bike along the pavement, a busted tyre meaning he can’t ride it the rest of the way to work and he’ll have to fix it once he’s there, and he’d entirely forgotten that it was early enough on a week day for him to feasibly come across them. It’s a surprise when he spots the familiar bob of Henry Cassidy running down the pavement, a flurry of blonde hair hot on his heels. 

By the time Henry has thrown his arms around Killian’s legs he’s scarcely had time to catch up to what is happening.

“Oh, Killian,” comes Emma Swan’s breathless greeting, as surprised to see him as he is to see her. 

“Emma,” he greets warmly, before turning his attention to Henry, still hugging his knees and beaming up at him. “Hullo, sailor. How’s your week going?”

“Emma can spit farther than our balcony!” 

Killian’s amused gaze lifts slowly from Henry up to Emma, whose cheeks alight with colour. “I see,” he says. 

“Not my most flattering skill,” she determinedly refuses to meet his gaze, her cheeks turning an almost offensive pink.

Killian can’t stop smiling. “But a skill nonetheless.”

Her eyes catch his and then they’re both grinning. 

“Emma’s taking me to school,” Henry informs him, “then tonight we’re going to buy rocky road ice cream and watch scary movies!”

“Like, Flubber and Ghostbusters kinda scary,” Emma hurries to assure him, but Killian waves her concerns away before his hand falls heavily onto Henry’s head. 

“It’s alright, you don’t have to explain yourself, love.”

The corner of Emma’s mouth tugs upwards. “What, so you’re not going to stick on the parental controls if I don’t surrender the remote?”

He smirks. “Depends if you remember to wash your hands before dinner.” Their stares remain locked for just a beat too long before they both demure, eyes dropping to the ground before back up again. It’s utterly inappropriate, he just can’t help the way his pulse races every time she so much as looks in his direction. 

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “I will say best not get him hopped up on sugar past six o’clock or you’ll never get him to bed.” Killian ruffles Henry’s hair, turning his attention on him to avoid Emma’s staggering gaze. It’s the only way he thinks he’ll remain steady. 

“I’ll never go to bed!” Henry declares.

Emma laughs, rolling her eyes lightly. When he dares to look at her she’s smiling gently. “Thanks,” she says. 

“Aye,” Killian barely breathes out, “and you. I mean,” realising what he’s said doesn’t actually make a modicum of sense, he can feel the heat flooding his expression, “enjoy your evening.”

For what it’s worth, Emma seems amused by his slip up. 

He’d thought it would go away, but at this point it’s a foregone conclusion. Emma Swan’s smile reduces him to little more than a bumbling schoolboy no older than Henry himself. 

-/-

The first time Killian seeks her out deliberately is not her proudest moment. 

Usually when Killian Jones comes to her door it’s to pick up or drop off Henry or to see Neal, never just her or because she is the subject of his attention. It’s not something that overly bothers her, as every encounter’s brevity gives her only a short time for her imagination to run wild. She knows she shouldn’t feel guilty, she has nothing to feel guilty over, but sometimes when Killian Jones’ eyes are resting on her she forgets Henry is there, forgets Neal exists, and she _knows_ she conjures scenarios, unbidden, that no married woman should guiltlessly be giving life to.

Ones where she considers meeting him at a bar with nothing to her name besides her scars. She wonders if, without Henry as their catalyst, he would still tease her with gentle words and a hardened wit. If he’d still watch her like she hangs the sun like he does whenever she compliments Henry on a story or a piece of artwork. She wonders how he’d be with her if Henry weren’t around. If Neal weren’t. 

Not that he ever is. 

As the months get longer apparently so does Neal’s schedule, with him requiring to fly out to New York or Hawaii most weeks to conduct business and leaving Emma at home with Henry alone. What had once existed between them, the kindling of something, a spark in need of a little attention, has long since died, and if she’s honest it feels more like she is lodging in his home. Nothing is theirs. She eats at his table, sleeps in his bed. 

All his. 

Except Henry.

God, there’s a little piece of Henry that’s _hers_ and she clings to it as desperately as her lost little grip will allow. 

It’s been an uphill battle, learning his nuances and his likes and dislikes but she has revelled in every second. He’s become the centre of her world so fast it frightens her, but for all intents and purposes he is her responsibility now. He needs her. She can’t allow herself to get lost in the sparkling sapphire of Killian Jones, not when on paper she is still with Neal and Henry is relying on her. 

No, the brevity and deliberate nature of their encounters is a good thing. Then she can’t get too carried away with wonderings.

Until the day Killian comes looking for her.

He didn’t have much of a choice; Jefferson had already warned him a few too many times about bringing Henry to the Rabbit Hole, and his previous offer to help him out had been rendered null and void on account of Grace catching the flu that had been circulating their grade school. Robin was out as he too was on shift tonight and it was only when Killian was considering approaching Robin’s new girlfriend, who would tonight be watching over Roland, when he realised maybe he didn’t _have_ to pull out all the stops. 

Neal was still in New York, but he knew the answer wouldn’t have been an affirmative even if he was in Boston. But Emma? Over the past couple of weeks he’d watched her with Henry, and she was — well, she was good. Henry liked her, knew her very well by this stage. It was evident she cared about the boy and maybe, well. Maybe she’d be okay taking him for an evening. Maybe in her he could find the partner in taking care of the boy he so desperately wanted Neal to be.

The Cassidy’s have just moved apartments, conveniently timed over the ten days Henry would be with Killian, so he hopes she won’t have too much to do when he turns up at their door and asks for this huge favour. Their new address clutched in one hand and Henry’s hand tucked into his other, the pair of them climb the stairs of the building. Killian tries to stop Henry from pausing to gaggle at the view outside the windows of the stairwell, but the lad has been in a dawdling sort of mood all day and its beginning to drive him up the wall. 

By the time they reach the right floor, he can already hear Emma’s voice floating down the corridor toward them, sounding altogether a lot more heated than he is used to. 

“Isn’t there any way you can get in touch with him?” The muted static sound informs him she is speaking into her cell, and when they turn the corridor this suspicion is confirmed. She is stood in the middle of the corridor beside a small suitcase, one hand pressed against a shut door in front of her. “No _you_ listen, asshole, I have been standing in this corridor for an hour and I want to get into my goddamn apartment. So either you get Neal Cassidy on the phone or I swear to God I am going to end one of you. And _you_ are the only I have an address for right now.” 

She pulls the phone from her ear and stabs at it furiously, letting out a frustrated sound. Her lips begin to curl around a ‘ _ff_ ’ noise he is sure is about to materialize into a word he doesn’t want Henry to hear, so he lurches forward slightly into her line of vision to make himself known.

Emma jumps, lips immediately dropping the sound but he can see the agitation is still setting firmly between her shoulders. 

“Hi,” he says, in lieu of anything else. 

“Hey kid,” Emma says to Henry, forcing a smile. “What are you guys doing here?”

Killian clears his throat, feeling more uncertain than ever about the idea. 

“Well, I — I realise it hasn’t been ten days yet, but I’m a little out of options.” 

“He has to go to work,” Henry chimes in, parroting what he’d told the lad earlier. 

“Aye,” he smiles faintly, “I have to go to work, and everyone who usually watches Henry for me isn’t available.” Emma’s expression tightens, but he ploughs on. “It’s just I work at a bar, and it really isn’t appropriate for me to, uh, let him tag along.” She doesn’t offer him a shred of anything, merely folds her arms and he can feel beads of sweat begin to pool at the back of his neck as he suffers under the shrewdness of her gaze. “And I was just thinking —”

“Just thinking what?” It’s here she chooses to interject coolly. She reaches for her bag and stuffs her phone inside with far more force than necessary, grunting as she does so. “That I’ve got nothing better to do? That I have no goddamn life of my own?” 

Killian, bemused by the bite in her voice, flounders for a response. Henry’s other hand latches onto the leg of his slacks. “You know that’s not what I’m saying,” he says, absently reaching out a hand to brush the top of Henry’s head and keeping his voice neutral, hoping the gesture might remind her of the six-year-old present. 

She might be a little too caught up in her ire to notice it. 

“What, so you just think I’m _that sort_ of person?” Before Killian can acquire as to what she means she continues, crashing through the conversation with all the finesse of a wild animal clawing for an escape. “Well I’m not, he’s not my kid and he’s not my problem so whatever co-parenting gig you wanted to go for here you can forget it.” 

When Henry’s grip tightens Killian can feel himself start to lose his temper.

“There’s no need to be so beastly in front of the boy,” he snaps. 

Emma rounds on him. “I have been stood locked outside of my own apartment for an _hour_ because my _husband_ didn’t bother to put me on the lease. Like I don’t even exist. Like I’m _nothing_.” If there’s a tremor in the way she speaks she furiously shakes it away as she thumps a fist against the apartment door. “I will be as beastly as I goddamn like.” 

It doesn’t take a genius to recognise she isn’t in the right sort of state to be looking after Henry. Irritated at her attitude and resigned to finding some other solution, Killian tugs at Henry’s hand to pull him back the way they’ve come.

“C’mon, Henry.”

To his surprise, the boy resists. In fact, he releases Killian’s fingers and spreads his palm wide, waiting for him to do the same. Once he does Henry pulls entirely away and sprints back over to Emma, wrapping his arms around her knees and staring up at her. Emma, surprised, merely sways in an attempt to keep her balance. 

“You’re not nothing,” Henry says quietly, fervently, “you’re _never_ nothing.”

That’s all it takes.

Killian watches as emotion spills over Emma’s cheeks, pulling Henry’s arms away so that she can kneel down and tug him into a fierce hug, her shoulders shaking as the boy braces against her.

“I’m sorry Henry,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “You know I’m not mad at you, right? It’s not your fault. I could never be mad at you.”

Henry’s response is muffled, but from his astounded position near the end of the corridor Killian can still hear it. 

“I know.” 

By the time she pulls away she’s managed to gather herself, moving so she is sitting on the ground with her back resting against the wall. Henry leans into her until she wraps an arm around his shoulder so he can rest his head on hers. 

Eventually, she speaks up. “You can… you can leave him. It’s fine.”

Killian hovers awkwardly, still not entirely certain. “Swan…” 

“Haven’t you got to get to work?” 

When she turns her emerald eyes onto his he can see they are red-rimmed, overlain by an obvious sheen of water but imbibed entirely with determination. She’ll look after him, he knows she will. 

So he relents. 

“I’ll see you later Henry, okay?”

Henry waves, and Killian departs. 

It takes until the door to the stairwell has completely swung shut for Emma to speak again, resting her head against Henry’s and letting his warmth fill her, calm her, bring her back down to somewhere steady. 

“It’s not Killian’s fault either,” she says, needlessly. Henry hums his agreement. “God, he must think I’m a monster.”

She can feel Henry’s smile move through his entire body. “He likes you.”

Emma lifts her head, frowning at him. “Did he tell you that?”

Henry’s chestnut eyes are bright like polished gems with secrets inside. 

“He likes you.”

-/-

Three hours into one of the worst shifts he’s ever worked, Killian has to admit he’s a little distracted. Robin keeps calling him out for forgetting the most obvious things, and even Jefferson is starting to send him concerned looks. He can’t help it. His mind is in an utterly distant place, somewhere in the corridor of Neal’s apartment building watching Emma Swan weep silently into Henry’s shoulder. 

Part of him is still pissed. Rightfully so, really. Whatever frustration she had with Neal Cassidy she had no right to take it out on his son, or Killian himself for that matter, and he still bristled when he thought about some of the words she had so haplessly thrown at him. 

_Whatever co-parenting gig you wanted to go for here you can forget it_. 

He’d thought that at least, despite everything, he and Emma were becoming friends. Perhaps he’d been entirely wrong.

It’s three hours into one of the worst shifts he’s ever worked that he breaks his fourth glass, grimacing as the jagged edge of a shard cuts into his palm and he hastily searches the back room for some sort of bandage he can stick around it.

It’s three hours and twenty minutes into one of the worst shifts he’s ever worked that just after he finishes serving Ruby and Dorothy, the familiar blur of ash brown hair comes sprinting up to his usual place at the bar and dumps something haphazardly atop it. 

“Woah – hey!” Killian blinks in surprise, before his heart thuds to a stop.

A million different explanations for why Henry Cassidy has run so fast into the bar without supervision pass through his mind at three disastrous scenarios every millisecond before Emma emerges, squeezing through the crowd in a way Henry’s tiny form doesn’t have to, blonde hair tied back in a messy ponytail. 

That’s all Killian can acknowledge until Henry taps the bar again, asking for his attention. It’s then that Killian releases the object he’s brought to him appears to be some sort of — well. He’s not entirely sure what it is. 

“What are you doing here? What’s this?”

Henry beams up at him, puffing up his chest. “I did the icing but it’s from Emma.” Emma, who has finally caught up to them, all contrition and not exactly meeting his eyes. “She says she’s sorry she got mad at you.”

It’s a cake, he realises. Some kind of sponge cake on a plate covered with a plastic wrap. An apology cake if Henry is to be believed. 

His eyebrows climb in surprise. “Is that so?”

Finally her gaze lifts to meet his and she offers a weak shrug in response, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards.

“I mean, I dunno if it’s edible but like… it’s the thought, right?”

Truthfully, he’s beyond touched by the gesture, all of his earlier irritation melting away. 

It’s utter sincerity in his eyes when he replies, “thank you.”

Emma shrugs it off like it’s nothing, but it’s Henry who is demanding his thanks. 

“ _I_ told her you liked vanilla,” he says, pouting.

“I do like vanilla,” Killian agrees with a grin, reaching over the bar to ruffle his hair, “thanks bug.” Henry preens at the praise. “Are you staying?” When Emma nods, Killian catches Robin’s eye and gestures for him to come over. “Let me see if I can get you a table.” 

-/-

Three hours and thirty-five minutes into a shift experiencing a radical improvement, Killian crosses over to a booth in the corner of the smoky bar, dimly lit by fluorescent red lights and glass candles. On one hand he balances a tray, two glasses resting neatly atop it that he then places down onto the table. 

“One raspberry lime rickey for the sailor,” he announces, and Henry reaches for the scarlet drink with an eagerness that makes Emma raise an eyebrow, “and a glass of our finest sauvignon blanc for the lady.”

Emma eyes him suspiciously. “How did you know?”

He chooses not to mention the occasions he’s spotted a bottle in their apartment, knowing full well Neal has no real taste for wine. That it was one more little fact he’d filed away among everything else he has catalogued _Emma Swan_ , such as her partiality for bear claws and fondness for red leather. 

“Lucky guess,” he lies.

-/-

It’s not the sort of place Emma would have expected Killian to work. 

She imagined somewhere light and warm, somewhere soft. Truthfully, until that afternoon she’d been certain his job involved children, else she wasn’t really sure just how he’d gotten so heavily involved in the raising of Henry Cassidy. Without any particularly close friends of her own she can’t imagine doing that much for somebody just out of friendship. 

Well. Killian Jones isn’t in it just for Neal, he’s made that abundantly clear on many occasions. 

She and Henry decided to stay for dinner, Killian coming over throughout his shift as much as he can to eat his share of the cake and regale them with tales of his worst customers, but for the most part she and Henry are left alone. It’s only when the evening slowly starts to dry up that she realises, really, Henry should be getting home. About twenty minutes ago his head dropped against her chest from where she’d been holding him close, breathing evening out as it tickles against the skin of her neck. 

She _should_ move. 

But Henry’s legs are lying across her, feet resting in Killian’s lap, and she can’t stop staring at the blue of eyes. 

Towards the end of his shift his boss had apparently let him off early, and instead of heading home he had come to Emma and Henry and sat down beside them. She couldn’t pinpoint just when they’d shuffled close enough for their thighs to be touching, but currently his arm is slung around the back of the booth just above her shoulders and Emma is hugely conscious of it. Her stomach flips whenever his fingers accidentally brush the skin near her collar. 

With his free hand, Killian had been tickling Henry lightly in the stomach until the boy had fallen asleep. 

Perhaps they both know that now he is, they should really move. The excuse for their proximity is out like a light. 

Just a little bit longer, that’s all. That’s all she needs. 

“I guess, uh, me and Neal aren’t exactly conventional,” she speaks in a low voice, partially because their faces are only inches apart but mostly because this isn’t something she wants Henry picking up on, albeit as drowsily as he could manage. “He wanted somebody around for Henry and I thought… well. I thought I could make something out of that.” 

Killian looks at her curiously. “Have you?”

“You were standing in the same corridor as me today, right?” she offers with a good-natured roll of her eyes and he chuckles gently, moving as little as possible so as not to wake the boy. “But it’s fine, really. It’s what part of me expected. And it’s not like marriage was ever going to happen to me in any other context.”

She offers this without a shred of bitterness, it’s just the truth. It’s a truth she came to terms with a long time ago; she’s just a little uncertain as to why she’s sharing this truth with Killian Jones, of all people.

His expression is unreadable, but partly because she refuses to look him in the eye. Not when she can feel his gaze burning into the side of her head. 

“Haven’t you ever been in love?” he asks, softly. 

Emma smiles ruefully. “Love is… I mean, it’s for some people. Not me.”

Killian’s eyebrow arches only slightly. “No?”

“Well if it isn’t happening with Neal,” she shrugs, “who?”

He looks as if he wants to say something dangerous. Something that could upset this precarious balance they’ve found themselves in, this soft encounter with murmured voices and the heat of him surrounding her while Henry snuggles across them. 

So she doesn’t let him. 

“What about you?” she asks lightly. “Is love for you?”

Killian sighs, eyes rising to the ceiling as they become shrouded in memory. “It was,” he answers finally, “once. I was engaged about… oh. Seven years ago now? I was young but it was true.”

“What happened?”

“She passed away.” He fixes his gaze on Henry, reaching over to gently brush some hair from his eyes. “Heart failure. There’s a low risk for sudden cardiac arrest in the young, but… she was that one in a million.” Emma feels a swell of affection for this man, his movements suddenly heavy and a slight quiver to his voice. “It ruined me for a long time. In fact it was really only looking after Henry that pulled me out of it.” He smiles, and it’s warm. “When Neal told me he was going to sue for custody he needed me there and then when he won, well. That’s when the real work started.”

The fact that he’s deftly moved the conversation along doesn’t escape her, and she doesn’t want to prolong a rehash of his pain. That considered, he has brought up something Emma has been wondering about for a long time now. 

“What was Henry’s mother like? I mean, is she still in the picture?” Killian shakes his head quickly. “Neal never talks about her.”

“With good reason,” he mutters. He breathes out heavily through his nose, rubbing his eye with a tired hand and apparently mulling over how best to put this. “She was… she doesn’t have a part to play in this narrative, none at all. If Neal wasn’t ready to be a father and, believe me, he was far from it, then she was even less suited for motherhood. She was unstable. Didn’t even tell Neal that Henry existed until he was a few weeks old.”

His fingers reach to play with the buckle on Henry’s shoes. 

“It was an environment we were eager to get the lad out of, and we succeeded. Never heard from her again.” Finally, the corner of his mouth quirks upwards even as his eyebrows remain knitted together. “Between us I think we’ve done okay.”

Emma feels compelled to reassure him of this fact — Henry is a treasure, anybody who encounters him can attest to it. Instead she finds herself telling him something else entirely. 

“I, um. I actually gave up a kid. For adoption, I mean.”

Killian’s brows jump upwards in surprise and she flushes, looking away. 

“I was only seventeen and I’d… I grew up in the foster system. My parents abandoned me at the side of the freeway when I was a baby. I had a family until I was three but then they had kids of their own and after that I could never really settle anywhere.”

His arm drops from the back of the booth to rest on her shoulder, his hand drawing circles into the bared skin there.

“No real home, a crap ton of abandonment issues — I wasn’t even close to being ready to be a mom, so I went for a closed adoption. His best chance. Heard him crying in the delivery room and then that was it.” Her view of Henry is slightly blurred, but she blinks the emotion furiously away. “But if he has half the family you are to Henry, I’d be happy.” 

Killian’s expression breaks out into a watery grin. 

“It’s part of why I agreed to marry Neal. Here Henry is with a dad brave enough to keep him, to fight for him, even. He deserves to keep that.”

“You _are_ brave, Swan.”

The words are out quickly, almost as if he were afraid if he didn’t say them fast then he’d never say them at all. Emma simply rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Sweet as it is, he doesn’t need to make her feel better. 

“Shut up.”

“No, I mean it,” Killian insists, angling his body to face her. “It’s not just anyone who can face their darkest moments with such pragmatism.”

Emma attempts to shrug off his praise, feeling the tips of her ears turn pink. “I just want some kid to have a happy home. Then maybe,” she sighs, “maybe the universe will do me a solid and give my kid the same.”

Eventually, the evening has been eked away with shared confessions and hearty jokes, and sooner than she is ready Killian is lifting Henry’s limp form and carrying him out to her car. He settles the boy into the car seat she’d had installed and buckles him up tight.

“Thanks for the cake,” he says once he’s shut the door as quietly as he can, “and for tonight.”

“Yeah.” 

They exchange shy looks, and for a moment Emma feels the urge to lurch forward and kiss him on the cheek. She settles for squeezing his hand, just once, before moving around to the driver’s side and getting inside. 

He stands at the edge of the parking lot, arms folded, watching, until they’ve driven completely out of sight. 

-/-

Before she’s even thought about how she’s going to balance the sleeping Henry with an attempt to twist her key in the new lock the door swings open inwardly, and she jolts in surprise when she sees Neal staring back at her. 

There’s a beat of silence, but as always Neal breaks it. 

“Hey,” he coos, reaching forward to lift Henry from her and she lets him, the boy oblivious as his head rolls onto this new shoulder. “If it isn’t my favourite little man.” They step back inside the apartment, Emma shutting the door as softly as she can behind her. “What did you do to him?”

“Worn him out, apparently,” Emma says, feeling as if she is speaking from a distance. She hasn’t forgotten how long she’d been standing outside in that corridor, and if Neal’s hesitant stance is anything to go by he hasn’t either. “Guess it is possible. What are you doing here?” She drops the plate with the crumbling remains of the cake into the sink. “We weren’t expecting you for another few days.” 

He was supposed to be in New York until Thursday. When she needed him four hours ago, that was where he was supposed to be. 

“Well, I figured they didn’t need me as much as they were boasting,” Neal sits down at the table, Henry snoozing quietly in his arms. “And after all this business with the flat…” Emma stiffens. “Emma, I’m so sorry. I had my cell switched off, I really shouldn’t have done. And I should’ve just put you on the lease, I wasn’t thinking.” 

“It’s fine.”

What else can it be?

Neal’s tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, evidently not really sure what to do with her apparent easy acceptance. 

“So, yeah,” he changes direction, “I thought I’d come back and see you guys. And, ah, nobody was home.” His tone is coloured with something else, something — almost something accusatory underneath. She has no idea what to make of it, this bizarre tension crackling in the air. They’re allowed to go out; he can’t seriously imagine they spend all of his time away sitting at home and waiting for his return, can he? 

“Sorry,” she says anyway, “we just went out for dinner.”

Talking to him feels like pulling teeth right now, and she has no idea if he can feel it too.

“Yeah?” Neal grins. “Where’d you go?”

Emma hesitates before answering. “Uh, the Rabbit Hole? Heard of it?”

His raises an eyebrow. “The Rabbit Hole? That’s not a really a kid appropriate place, Em. I thought you were gonna say Chuck E. Cheese’s or something.”

“Well Killian was on shift, so.” 

Neal blinks in surprise. “Killian Jones?”

Emma gives him an odd look. She’d thought it’d be obvious. “Do we know another Killian?”

“Right, sorry,” Neal forces a breath of laughter, turning his gaze back to Henry, whom he is rocking slowly back and forth. “I just didn’t realise you guys were friends.”

She doesn’t know why she wants to provoke him, but she does. So her response is imbibed with as much challenge as she can make it. 

“Well, we get a lot of time to talk.”

If the way he stills is any indication, it hits his mark. Emma departs the room then, uncertain if she wants to face his true reaction. She listens with strained ears as Neal puts Henry to bed, murmuring affection before returning to the kitchen and she gets ready for bed as quickly as she can. If she’s fast enough, maybe she can pretend to be asleep by the time he decides to join her. 

It’s like she doesn’t know him anymore, or he doesn’t know her. She can’t work out which it is. 

The following morning isn’t the first time they’ve raised their voices at each other, but it is the first time she packs a bag and lets the door slam shut behind her. 

-/-

“Where’s Emma?” Henry asks, brushing sleep from his eyes as he toddles into the kitchen. 

In hindsight, it’s probably a question Neal should’ve prepared for before this moment. 

Instead he finds himself throwing out an imitation of a half-shrug that his him internally cringing at its awkwardness. “Maybe she went for a long walk. Or a holiday.” 

Henry frowns, jumping into the seat in front of the counter and dropping his chin onto his hands grumpily. 

“Emma said she’d make pancakes today.” 

Neal places a plate in front of his son. 

“Well Daddy made toast, how about that?”

Henry says nothing, picking up one of the pieces and carefully ripping the crusts from the edges. Right, shit. Henry doesn’t like crusts. Neal avoids smacking himself in the forehead and quickly moves to cut the others off.

“So,” he says, once they’re digging into their shared breakfast, “Daddy’s got lots of time off work this week, what d’ya wanna do? Wanna go to a theme park?”

Henry’s expression isn’t as enthusiastic as he was hoping it would be. Instead he looks dejectedly down at his toast. “I have homework to do.”

Neal laughs. “You’re six. What kinda school gives a six-year-old homework?” At Henry’s bug-eyed look, he hastens to continue. “You can always do it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Monday,” Henry points out, “I have to finish it _before_ tomorrow.” 

“Right, school. Yeah.” He lets out a long breath, musing on a solution. “Well, maybe I can help? Problem shared is a problem halved, and all that.” 

Except when it’s a marriage. Then it’s just a problem doubled.

The boy’s expression brightens. “Yes!” he beams, leaping from the stool and darting back into his bedroom. Man, the kid is easy to please. Neal’s just glad he isn’t asking anymore questions about Emma. That is a giant, twisted mess of a mess that he doesn’t even want to touch on right now. 

He should’ve put her on the lease. As always, he hadn’t been thinking. 

Or he had, and he’d just come to the wrong conclusion. 

Henry sprints back into the room with an exercise book in hand, laying it across the table and causing some accidental jelly stains. He pulls out a folded piece of paper with a few empty boxes already drawn across it. 

“It’s a family tree,” he announces. 

“Oh, boy.” 

And now he’s going to have to talk about dear old dad. He knows this is just going to be one of those days.

Neal diligently rattles off the names of his parents and grandparents, watching as Henry scrawls them into the boxes. It’s only when he moves to the other side of the tree that they start having problems.

Henry points at the box labelled ‘mother’. “Do I put Emma here?”

Neal rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, I don’t think so dude. She’s just your step-mom, so.” 

“What’s a step-mom?”

“It’s like,” he hesitates, “it’s like when she isn’t your real mom, but she’s still married to your real dad. That’s what Emma is.” 

Henry scans his worksheet with a critical eye. “Do I make a new box?”

Neal muses on it for a moment. “Yeah, here,” he points a finger at a spot next to his name, “right next to me should be fine.” 

His son busies himself with that amendment, leaning backward to observe his masterpiece. 

“And where do I put Killun?”

“Killian?” Neal blinks, before letting out a breath of laughter. “You know Killian isn’t actually related to you, yeah?”

Henry gives him an odd look, as if not entirely sure what his father means, and it sobers him up. 

“I know he looks after you, but he’s not your family,” he continues, his tone slightly harder as he feels some unbearable need to hammer this point home. “Not like I’m your family.”

“So…” Henry begins slowly. “He doesn’t go on the tree?”

“No,” Neal affirms, “he doesn’t go on the tree.”

Henry’s pencil remains poised above the paper as if not quite ready to let go of the notion. Neal, suddenly fearful he’s losing to something frightening and indomitable, reaches forward to pluck the implement from him and tosses it over his shoulder. 

“Forget about your homework,” he laughs at Henry’s surprised expression. “How about that theme park, hm?”

-/-

Neal phones Killian and asks to start his ten days early because he’s back from New York with some booked time off. He’d already been halfway out the door to pick Henry up again, spelling out his gratitude to Emma on his tongue, but it’s probably a well-timed reminder. He’d gone to sleep certain something significant had passed between he and Emma Swan in the Rabbit Hole and it’s not a line of thinking he should be indulging even slightly. She was married, to one of his oldest friends. She may have admitted she wasn’t in love with Neal but he was still very much in the picture, and his feelings had been entirely unaccounted for in Killian’s fantasies. 

And when Neal is the one to drop Henry off ten days later, he tries not to let his disappointment show. 

“I thought we could go to the park today, bug,” Killian calls over his shoulder to where Henry is playing in his room. “Apparently there’s a carnival. What do you think?”

The thunder of muffled footfalls charging into the sitting room is his answer, Henry launching himself over the side of the sofa so he can fall into Killian’s lap. The elder man lets out an indulgent _oof_ to incite a few giggles. 

“Daddy already took me to a theme park last week,” he pouts. “ _And_ I didn’t have to do my homework.”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Aye, of course you didn’t. Well, you know over here I run a tight ship.” He tickles the boy who squirms while he laughs. “And anyway, a carnival is different from a theme park. It’s got, erm,” he struggles to think of a few key differences, “like fortune tellers and the circus and stuff.”

“Can we invite Emma?”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “You don’t think she’ll find the carnival too similar to the theme park?”

“Emma didn’t come to the theme park.” Henry frowns, playing with the zipper on the front of Killian’s jacket. “Daddy said she went for a really long walk.”

It’s only after a few minutes of gentle interrogation that he discovers Emma hasn’t been at the Cassidy residence for over a week, and if his curiosity isn’t enough to make him pick up the phone and call her, Henry’s urgings certainly are.

Three hours later and they’re bathed in coloured light. Swarms of people pass around them, laughing and chattering sporting gigantic toys won as prizes as children run about screaming. Henry has already made about three new friends through simple acts of enquiry, and Emma and Killian can only look on with amusement. They’ve already tackled the coconut shy (a skill Emma had surpassed Killian efficiently at) and the hall of mirrors (Henry had gotten a wobbly bottom lip halfway through and refused to walk another step — he’d had to be carried out by Killian, his face pressed into the lapel of his jacket), and at that moment Henry is stood a few feet in front of them in the petting zoo, eagerly waving at them as a goat nibbles on the feed in his hand. 

Killian and Emma, leaning up against the edge of the fence, smile and wave back. 

Three hours, and Emma hasn’t mentioned anything at all might be wrong. Killian was waiting for her to bring it up, but realises perhaps she never might. 

“So,” he starts, folding his arms and resting them against the railing. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“There’s nothing going on,” she replies neutrally, but she doesn’t meet his gaze and he figures that’s probably a tell.

So he arches an eyebrow and throws her a look. “Swan, Henry’s already told me you haven’t been at Neal’s. One of the reasons I invited you today was because he was so desperate for me to.”

Caught out, she shifts her position so her back is leant against the rail, looking back into the expanse of the carnival. “Neal and I had a fight, that’s all.” 

“A fight that has you moved out?” he counters. It has to be something a little bit more than the small scuffle she’s making it out to be if she’s been living somewhere else for a week already. More than anything, he just wants to make sure the pair of them are alright. “Look, you don’t have to tell me,” he continues in a gentler tone, “it isn’t my business. But these things affect Henry. If you and Neal can’t make up your minds about what’s going on then how on earth is the lad supposed to make sense of it?” As far as Henry was concerned, Emma had gone on holiday — which would make the truth all the harder for him to come to terms with. 

“I don’t want anything like this to affect him,” Emma admits, pausing to brush some of her hair from her eyes, “and I already know what the best thing to do is.” At his questioning look she continues. “Get the hell out of his life before he’s old enough to miss me.” 

Killian frowns. “Emma…”

“But I don’t want to be out of his life.” This is spoken with a determined edge, something forceful. “I know that’s selfish but he’s — he’s special.” 

He watches as Henry is lifted onto the back of a small pony beginning to trot around the pen. Of course Henry is special; he’s special to all of them in his way. “It’s a lot of things, Swan, but it isn’t selfish.” To want to stay, to keep providing this boy with boundless amounts of happiness — it’s an undertaking none of them are able to refuse. “But you’re wrong, he _would_ miss you.” When he turns to her he finds her eyes already on his, silent but certain. It makes him bold enough to carry on. 

“I would miss you.”

Emma shakes her head ruefully, mouth set in a tight line. “ _That_ is selfish.”

Killian hangs his head, colour flooding his cheeks — she’s right. It’s entirely selfish. To even hint at him feeling anything for her beyond friendship while her relationship with Neal is so tumultuous is nothing short of unkind. Even if that feeling might be returned.

“You’re right, love,” he says, “I apologise.”

Even so, her hand reaches out to squeeze his, and she allows him to link their fingers together. 

At that moment Henry calls to them from the top of the pony. “Can you see?” he yells, bouncing even at the chagrin of the member of staff. “Can you see?”

“We can see,” Emma calls back with a laugh, “very knightly.”

They spent the rest of the carnival submerged in a relative peace, bouncing from attraction to attraction with little incident.

And when their hands had brushed and she’d hooked her forefinger around his little finger and left them only loosely connected, his heart had still skipped a beat — that was how he knew he was completely gone.

-/-

“Ready — three, two, one, woah!”

Henry squeals delightedly as between them Killian and Emma lift him into the air. He makes a show of wiggling his legs until they drop him back down to the ground. Since leaving the carnival he’d insisted on holding a hand of theirs in each of his, binding the three of them together in a long chain that took up a considerable portion of the sidewalk.

Ordinarily Emma would care a little bit more about getting in the way of other people, she was the sort of person who preferred to blend into the background — but right now she was too happy to care. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this light, but a day spoiling Henry with Killian was apparently all she’d needed to lift the weight from her heart that had settled since she’d started crashing on August’s sofa. 

Henry Cassidy meant the world to her, she’d missed him. And Killian, well. There was an entirely different kind of missing altogether. The kind where something she hadn’t even realised had _been_ missing is suddenly there in the steadiness of his presence and the touch of his hand.

In another life, she thinks, watching his profile as he smiles down at the boy. In another life this might’ve been hers without the strings attached. Someone like Killian Jones, and a little boy bouncing between them. Another life where love is easy and everyone is ready and no one has to take a leap of faith without somebody supporting them with their feet planted firmly on the ground. Another life where the people who loved her couldn’t be counted on one hand. 

Another life. Not this one.

Henry and Killian have been trading barbs, she hadn’t noticed, and suddenly Henry rips his hand free and begins to sprint forward. 

“That’s it, you’re getting it!” Killian threatens, jogging slowly forward to give Henry a head start. 

Emma can’t help but laugh. “Watch out Henry, the British are coming!” 

All the same, Killian doesn’t pursue him for long, but drops back so he can fall into step beside her. Her mind has become so overrun by visions of a place where life is simple and she doesn’t have to wrest with decisions or hold everything so close to her chest that something is tightening painfully in her chest. It’s almost embarrassing, really. But when Emma reaches for his hand he doesn’t comment on it, merely letting her link their fingers together in an act of silent reassurance. 

Henry doesn’t remain preoccupied with the idea of being chased for more than half a minute, as his attention is soon caught by something coming the other way down the street.

“Hnn!” he exclaims, stopping mid-step before breaking out into a run. “Daddy!” 

Killian’s bemused expression matches hers; Neal isn’t supposed to be back from Hawaii for another few days, both of them know that. Yet the evidence is overwhelming: Neal’s surprised yet enthusiastic greeting while Henry leaps into his arms. It’s the first time she’s seen him since she walked out eleven days ago — she’s still holding Killian’s hand. 

She immediately drops it, Killian quickly shoving his into the pocket of his jacket.

She doesn’t know why they’re acting like they’ve done something wrong, especially when Neal isn’t supposed to be in Boston until Wednesday.

And he was the one her dazed mind had registered with his arm around Tamara Mendell. 

“Boy, am I excited to see you,” Neal beams, pressing a wet kiss to Henry’s cheek.

Emma is still frozen, she can’t move. She can’t think. 

And her anchor is standing five feet away, in the arms of the man who keeps changing the tide.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and finally here is part 3, checking in at around 12,000 words. thanks a million to everybody who's jumped aboard this crazy story train with me, I hope you like the ending!

It feels like some sort of surreal nightmare. 

Beside him, Emma has completely shut down, gaze fixed to the floor as Neal lifts Henry into the air, rattling off an excited greeting as he presses kisses to the boy’s cheek. Beside him stands his PA (Tamara, Killian thinks her name is) awkwardly readjusting the strap on her bag and not looking anybody in the eye. Although the early Boston summer air is light, it feels solid and discomfiting, and gives him an almost unbearable urge to crawl out of his own skin. Anything that would stop the flush at the back of his neck, his hand from twitching from its place in his pocket eager to find itself in Emma’s again, an odd sort of shame from clinging to his shoulders. 

He’d tried to step into somebody else’s life, again. 

And as always, reality has a way of wrenching him painfully back to the present. Away from that breath of a fantasy. 

(Was it only moments ago that he and Emma had Henry balanced between them, a carnival behind them and the rest of the afternoon ahead? The world had seemed so perfect then.)

“So,” Neal says, approaching the pair of them while he balances Henry on his hip. He’s smiling but Killian knows better, can see the tic that jumps at the corner of his mouth and the slight furrow in his brow. “What’re you guys doing here?”

It’s more of an accusation, a probe, than a question, but at least Neal is being subtle. Subtler than Tamara and her shamefaced looks at the sky. 

But if Neal wants to be coy, Killian is perfectly happy to play along. “We just took Henry to a carnival on the common,” he informs him, forcing his hands to stay in his pockets. 

“No, I meant what’re you guys doing with my son, together.”

Not particularly subtle at all, then. 

He knows the conclusion Neal might have already reached, knows how much it must horrify Emma and Killian hurries to correct his assumption. “Neal —”

“So the plan is to just wait until I’m out of town and then gang up on me, right?” Neal cuts him off with a furious glare, his grip on Henry tightening. The boy, unsure about what’s happening, clutches at the collar of Neal’s shirt. “Show him a better time with a nuclear family, is that it?” Killian feels his ears burn at the accusation, even though he knows it has no basis in truth. Mostly because whatever hadn’t happened, he _was_ harbouring feelings for Neal’s wife. And he had spent a fair few moments of that day holding her hand. Wishing she was his, imagining it. “Have you been doing this a lot?”

Killian raises a hand in a placating gesture, aware the rising volume of his friend’s voice is starting to attract bystanders. 

“I just wanted some company on an excursion, and Henry asked for Emma.” 

“Well Emma surrendered her right to see Henry when she stopped answering my calls,” Neal snaps, throwing a hurt look in Emma’s direction and Killian can’t work out which way is up. The floor is sliding from underneath him, the Boston skyline climbing towards the sun. It’s like wading through glue, trying to decide which party appears the most hurt when they have both imploded so catastrophically over the past week. His friend, or the woman he is developing strong feelings for. 

Or the more deserving third option. Henry.

Emma, who appears to only be able to watch events unfold, is frowning at the ground under the press of the harshly hurled words.

“Maybe this is a conversation we could have later, not in front of the lad,” Killian urges in a lower voice, aware that watching them argue is probably the furthest thing from what Henry wants.

Neal rounds on him with bite. “Maybe decisions about Henry’s welfare should be left to his real dad, hm?”

Killian feels something inside of him give way. 

Neal’s expression immediately crumples with remorse. “Killian, wait — I didn’t mean that.” 

There’s a tremor in his grip and a ghost at his shoulder and he’s reminded for not the first time that this isn’t his — none of this could ever be his. It’s Neal’s, all Neal’s, he’s just the helping hand, the caring friend, the add-on. His name might be on some documents regarding Henry’s well-being, but this is the point he realises that it might never mean anything in the eyes of his oldest friend; because as soon as things get tough, as soon as he gets irritated, all he’s going to do is throw the _real dad_ card at him. 

The _real dad_ card that trumps anything he has, that blows his affection for Henry out of the water. It doesn’t matter how fiercely he loves that boy. In the eyes of any onlooker, he’s not relevant. Not important. Maybe he never was. His confidence entirely shaken, he questions every single time Henry has looked up at him, every occasion he has doubtlessly stared at Killian and known the truth he’d somehow always overlooked. 

To him, Killian Jones is nothing. 

Less than nothing.

And Emma Swan, of all people, bears witness to his great humiliation. He can’t even look at her.

“Killian?” Neal probes, and he’s suddenly aware that he hasn’t spoken a word. 

His hands clench into fists and drop to his sides, a mortifying stinging sensation beginning to tingle around his nose.

“No, you’re right,” he says to him, stiffly, “it’s your son, your wife. Forgive me for presuming to intrude.” 

He can’t tell if it’s fury or failure but something in him is white hot, and he can scarcely even bear to think of Emma as he turns to leave. 

Neal calls after him. “C’mon, man. You know I didn’t mean that.” 

Maybe he doesn’t, but he still said it. Some thoughtless, uncensored part of Neal Cassidy thought him worth _less_ , and this is where they are because of it. He is dimly aware that Tamara is leaving the scene with almost the same rapidity as he, but his vision is swimming and he wants to hit something to expel some of this energy so he moves as quickly down the street as he can gracefully manage.

The only other thing he is aware of is the burn of Emma’s emerald eyes on his back as he leaves. 

-/-

The walk back to their apartment is possibly the most uncomfortable Emma has ever been. 

They stay almost deadly silent, Killian’s parting words ricocheting between them as Neal keeps Henry tucked into his side, the side farthest from Emma. It’s such a stark contrast to an hour ago, walking with Henry between her and Killian with laughter stitching them all together. A haphazard family, a happy, broken thing. She longs to reach for the boy, to let him reassure her in the roundness of his gaze and his chestnut brown eyes. 

Now, though, Henry is looking out into traffic. Hand folded into his father’s, Emma wishes she could ask if he is okay. 

They reach the apartment and Neal kisses Henry once, asking him to go to his room and play and Emma begins steeling herself up. She’s not sure this is an encounter they can both emerge from alive — she doesn’t think she can survive another hurricane heartbreak, even if he can. 

Still, she’s not going down without a fight. 

She folds her arms and keeps her stance guarded, rounding on him once he enters the kitchen. She goes on the offensive, it’s the only way she knows how to breathe.

“So when were you going to tell anybody you were back in Boston?”

As always, Neal matches her stroke for stroke, even on his back foot. “Please, I’m back for like a day. It wasn’t worth it.”

She has no idea if he’s telling the truth, she doesn’t know anything anymore. She’s not sure it even matters.

“Are you cheating on me?”

She thinks of his arm around Tamara Mendell’s waist and she wants to throw up a little in her mouth; Neal hasn’t felt like _hers_ in a long time, but she still doesn’t know how to feel about him being anybody else’s. Something about it makes her skin crawl. 

Neal’s reply is indignant. “Are you cheating on _me?_ ”

(And maybe she’s a hypocrite, too.) 

The fact that she immediately knows he’s talking about Killian probably doesn’t bode well for the innocence she knows she should be projecting, but bringing him up only serves to incense her further.

 _Maybe decisions about Henry’s welfare should be left to his real dad_. 

That dismissal made her furious. She channels it into something a little less than productive. 

Her eyes narrow, the ice in her demeanour palpable. “The big boss and his gorgeous assistant, talk about a cliché.”

“You want clichés?” Neal bites back, “How about the spouse and the nanny?”

Emma lets out an exasperated noise. “Killian is not just ‘the nanny’!” He shares custody of the damn kid, at this point she’s sure he is as much of a father as Neal is. Maybe even more depending on the day of the week.

“You’re kinda missing the point here!”

The fact that she dodged the cheating question didn’t go unnoticed, then. She may not have, but she wanted to. Perhaps that is almost as bad. 

“What is it you want from me, Emma? A sincere yet defiant admission of guilt?” Neal shakes his head fiercely. “We both know whatever you think you saw today is what you’ll believe, and you’re stubborn as a bull to boot.”

“Alright,” she snaps, if that’s how he wanted to play it, “what did I see? Explain it to me, Neal.”

The immediate challenge doesn’t throw him off in the slightest. “Me, out in the street with my PA. She’s my friend, we —” The moment he starts the tirade Emma lets out a growl of fury, dumping plates into the sink with unnecessary force so he only continues louder, talking over the racket she makes. “—We _work together_. It’s the middle of the goddamn week, it’s not that uncommon!”

She wants to drown it out, she wants to drown him out. She wants to grow in volume until he can’t spit poison ever again but it’s only the knowledge of the boy next door, likely with his ear pressed to the wood, that keeps the barest tether on her temper. 

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe _this_.”

Neal throws up his arms in frustration. “For god’s sake Emma, if I _was_ cheating on you, if I _was_ ,” he says it with such flare she almost wants to believe him, “which I’m not, let’s stop pretending there is anything to even cheat _on_.” She flinches and he sees it, but he’s right. Neal hasn’t felt like hers in a long time. “We don’t talk, we barely even look at each other. This isn’t a marriage, it’s a joke!” 

“It was _always_ a joke!” she shoots back fiercely. 

A big “fuck you” to the system, a farce. A little secret that only they knew.

“Stop pretending you expected me to turn around and become the perfect wife, you knew what you were getting into!” Her voice is rising in volume and she can’t help it, she’s been crawling in her own skin, frightened of her own home for _months_. This is the first honest conversation they’ve had since she married him. “I’m sorry I’m not the sort of person prepared to beg for your time when you clearly weren’t interested in giving it, it’s just who I am.” 

“Hey, don’t act like this was a one way street, Emma,” Neal gets out heatedly, “you never gave a damn about what I did, how I spent my time. You couldn’t care less about what was important to me, you were too busy carving yourself into a martyr to give us a real shot. Is it so terrible for me to want to be around people who don’t look at me like I’m _failing?_ ” 

The worst thing is she isn’t sure she can remember a time where she really asked about his work. His work had always been _his work_ , this impenetrable force that squeezed him into boardroom savvy suits and saccharine sweet smiles. An entity rather than a place of employment, something that lived and breathed and stole him away. 

No, not stolen. Taken, with his consent. Neal always wanted to be lifted to higher places.

“Was it so terrible of _me_ to expect attention?” Emma can’t even acknowledge him, because he’s right. She’s always setting herself up to fail before she’s even begun. Maybe their marriage never stood a chance and maybe it’s her fault. So she throws the only weapon she has left in her arsenal. “Was it so wrong to expect you to give it to _Henry?_ ”

Neal’s expression instantly changes to a thread of something dangerous. “Don’t bring him into this.” 

Bolstered, Emma charges forward. “Too bad, he’s in this. Newsflash, Neal, he’s in your life! He’s _your_ responsibility! You don’t get to pick and choose when you’re a dad or when you’re a bachelor, you’re either a dad all the time or you never are.” 

Neal’s shoulders are tense and his expression icy. “Did Killian tell you that?”

Emma ignores him. “When you married me you were a dad, you did that for him. I know that. I _respect_ that, I understand it. I walked into this with my eyes open.” It had always been a joke, a farce. Fuck you, matrimony, and a tired little boy who just wanted to be held. “I just don’t think _you_ know why you married me. And I don’t have the patience required to wait for you to figure it out.”

They’re both silent for a long time. Long enough for Neal to fall heavily into a chair at the kitchen table. Long enough for Emma to count every groove on the floor tiles leading from her feet to the glass windows, sunlight throwing shapes against the surface of the granite. Long enough for them both to hear the soft _thud_ of Henry’s feet as he trudges away from his door and farther into his room.

“I never meant to hurt you.” 

It’s quiet, so quiet, his words are like raindrops. They disturb the air between them. 

But he’s genuine. And she spots a glimmer of the man she’d hoped he’d be.

“Henry loves you,” she says in lieu of a response, “so much.” She runs a hand through her hair, letting it fall past her shoulders. “And I nearly did too.” It’s not much of a confession when they both know it already. “ _Please_ don’t fuck it up for him.” 

The corner of Neal’s mouth turns upwards, but it’s twisted and sad. “Not like I did for you?”

Emma finally drags her gaze to his, and it’s a foregone conclusion. Although her heart clenches at the thought, she won’t be living at the Cassidy residence for much longer. 

“I nearly loved you too, y’know,” Neal murmurs. 

Emma shuts her eyes. 

“I know.”

-/-

When Neal enters Henry’s room as the afternoon begins to fade, he finds him sitting cross-legged on his bed, stripy socks folded underneath him as he pours over the well-worn pages of _Once Upon a Time_. The boy looks up, meeting his father’s gaze before dropping it back down to the book. Neal’s heart squeezes tightly. 

“Hey, buddy,” he says. 

“Hi,” Henry replies. He can’t tell if it’s a deliberately clipped greeting or merely brief in its nature — he has no idea how much Henry heard, what he thinks. The boy is as much an enigma to him as the years before his tongue had mastered speech. 

Neal settles himself on the end of the bed, almost trying to make as little of an impression into the mattress as he can. “Which story are you reading?”

Henry hums lightly to himself. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

His father grimaces; he’d never really liked that one. 

For Henry’s benefit he makes a show of exaggerating his frown and scrunched up nose, and it draws a giggle from the boy. A few moments of silence linger, so Neal speaks up again. 

“I’m really glad I got to see you today,” he says, truthfully. 

Henry smiles. “Me too.”

“And you know,” he starts, and the words taste like tar in his mouth, “you know I’d have told you if I knew I was going to be back in town, right?”

“I know,” Henry speaks without a trace of insincerity or suspicion and it makes him feel like shit. 

The spine of _Once Upon a Time_ creaks as Henry slowly closes it, leaving his little palms resting on the cover. 

“Is Emma leaving?”

All of Neal’s smartly planned explanations crumble as he detects the quiver in Henry’s voice, and he throws every rehearsal to the wind. Crawling up the bed, he reaches for his son and pulls him tight into his side, and Henry buries his head into Neal’s chest. His hands fist almost painfully into his shirt.

 _Please don’t fuck it up for him_.

“Listen,” he says, and he has no idea what the fuck he’s even saying, “none of this is your fault. Not one tiny bit. I love you and Emma loves you and you’re the best goddamn thing in this family. Sorry,” he says immediately, “that’s a naughty word. Don’t say that.” 

“Goddamn,” Henry tests it out. 

“I said _don’t_ ,” Neal prods him in the cheek, “Killian will kill me.”

Henry laughs into the front of his shirt.

“Look, I —” Trying to spell out the nuances of adult relationships to a six-year-old has never felt harder. “I want you to be happy. You being happy is the most important thing in the world to me, to us. But I also just — I don’t want to lie to you, so that’s why I’m telling you not everything happens like in there, hm?” He taps a hand on the cover of the old, brown book. “Sometimes Prince Charming and Snow White don’t, uh, work out. It doesn’t mean they don’t care about each other, they just have different, um, priorities.”

“What’s a pririty?”

“Priority,” he corrects, “like, uh, Snow White wants to kill the Evil Queen with a bow and arrow but Prince Charming wants to kill her with a sword. Differences.”

“That’s silly,” Henry frowns.

Neal shrugs, “I guess it is.” 

“Snow White and Prince Charming don’t _want_ to kill the Evil Queen.”

His father’s eyes roll skyward. “That’s really not the point, buddy.”

Henry merely blinks up at him, but it’s clear the boy is no longer visibly upset — maybe that’s enough for now. It’s a complicated situation he doesn’t even know where to begin explaining, and the fairy-tale as an analogy appears to have been as effective as one about water polo would be. But then, maybe Neal should stay away from things he doesn’t know anything about. His life has never felt further from a fairy-tale.

“I love you Henry, you know that, right?”

Henry nods into his chest. “I love you too daddy,” he whispers.

It’s the reassurance he so desperately needs. At least there’s one person — one person in the entire world who loves him properly, openly. Without strings attached, without conditions. No matter what he does or doesn’t do, there’s this one little boy who loves him. Neal holds onto that until he drifts off to sleep. 

(He shouldn’t have left work so soon. He should’ve expected the late night call.)

-/-

When Henry wakes, he is frightened.

Lying in an unfamiliar bed in an old, ratty t-shirt with a rabbit on it, the stranger smells and sounds jerk him wide awake. He trembles as he pushes back the unfamiliar quilt, tries to resist the tears building behind the back of his eyes. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home. Memories from a few hours earlier serve to remind him of how he got there, but they are no more comforting than the hardwood floor he finds beneath his bare feet. 

_Henry, wake up. We gotta go. I know it sucks, I’m sorry. I have to catch a flight, I can’t afford to miss this._

He pads slowly across the floor and takes in the decoration on the walls, all swirls and patterns and chequered colours — it’s still dark, just as dark as when he arrived, and the tree branch hanging just outside the window casts petrifying shapes across the room. 

_You’re just going to wait here until Killian finishes work, alright? Then he’ll look after you tonight. I’m going to wait right here until you go inside, yeah? I love you._

When he creaks the door open the noise echoes throughout the hallway, and he can hear a muffled voice coming from the end of it where light peeks through one of the open door frames. Eager for some illumination, Henry heads straight towards it. 

_Killian? Killian isn’t working tonight, kiddo. Let me see if I can — hold on. Stay right here._

Robin was nice. Robin is always nice. Robin gives him Hershey’s and reminds him to play nicely with Roland, who is a little smaller and younger than him. Henry reaches the end of the hallway, his pulse hammering loudly throughout his body, and he can hear one voice on the other side.

“I know you’re off sick and you screen calls from your boss when you are, but I really need you to call me back, it’s urgent. Thanks Killian.”

At the sound of Killian’s name Henry’s heart leaps and he pushes open the door hoping to see the man on the other side. It opens to reveal a kitchen, he knows because of the high surfaces and the table and chairs and the oven looks exactly the same as the one in Killian’s apartment. The man standing in the centre turns, startled, but Henry’s eyes are already combing the rest of the room. Killian isn’t there. 

“Where’s Killun?” he asks.

The man scrubs his jaw with his free hand, dropping his phone back onto the table. His hair is brown and coiffed up on the top of his head.

“Killian’s not here, Henry. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

_Hi Henry, my name’s Jefferson — Grace’s papa. You remember Gracie, don’t you?_

Henry can feel the familiar sting behind his nose, and his vision begins to swim. 

“I want to go home.” 

_You’re going to come stay with me and Grace tonight. Like a sleepover. Won’t that be fun?_

The man gives him one of the smiles that Henry knows isn’t real. “It’s just for tonight. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

“Where’s Killun?” Henry insists, feeling his bottom lip wobble. “I want my daddy. I want to go home.” He sniffs, but tries to assemble as much of his manners as he can. Maybe then the man will let him go. “ _Please_.” 

“I’m sorry Henry, you can’t. Let’s go back to bed, yeah?”

It only takes a few beats after this denial that Henry bursts into tears. It takes only a few seconds more for Jefferson to scoop him up into his arms, all unfamiliar smells and unfamiliar fabric underneath his fingertips, but it’s a modicum of adult reassurance and Henry clings on tight.

“I want to go home,” he sobs into the man’s shoulder, taking deep, hiccupping breaths. “I want Emma.”

“I know,” the man says, between low shushing sounds, “I’m sorry, I know.”

-/-

There was a crick in her neck after yet another night staying on August’s sofa, and Emma attempts to massage it out by twisting her wrist around as far as it will go. It’s potentially one of the least comfortable couches she’s ever had the displeasure of sleeping on, and she’s sampled a great many of those in the past. She supposes, now that she and Neal have finally called it off, she’ll have to start looking for someplace to live. She’d sold her apartment after she married Neal (or rather, the lease had expired and she hadn’t bothered to renew it), but it was time to get back out on her own. 

But first she’d be needing a few things. They’d agreed she’d keep her key to the Cassidy place until she was totally moved out so she could still grab her stuff while Neal was away, and she has to thank all that’s holy that he’s being as mature about this as she’s trying to be. They’d known from the start they might not work and they just — didn’t. That was all. 

She’d come equipped with a few flat-pack boxes that she was setting about assembling; Emma didn’t own that much, she wouldn’t need more than a couple, and it was just as she was opening her closet that she heard three loud _thumps_ coming from the front door. 

Frowning, Emma emerged from the bedroom as the knocks sounded again, and she wondered if maybe Neal had forgotten his key. Her curiosity piqued, she crossed the sitting room to open it. The pair standing on the other side made her blink in surprise. 

“Killian, Henry, what’re you guys doing —” Killian doesn’t wait for her to finish, his jaw set and a determined look on his face as he pushes past her into the apartment. She knows that look, and it’s thunder. Henry is hauled in after him, his little hand tucked tightly into Killian’s. “—Here?”

Killian ignores her question, turning instead to Henry. “I want you to pack a bag, bug. Quick as you can.” 

Henry blinks. “A bag?”

“Favourite toys, some clothes. Don’t leave anything out now.” 

Emma folds her arms, watching the exchange in total bemusement. There’s a tension in Killian’s entire posture, like he’s five seconds away from snapping in two. Henry appears equally puzzled, but embraces it with his usual cheerful countenance. 

“Are we going on holiday?”

“Aye,” Killian smiles, although it’s tight, “a holiday. Quickly now.” He pats him on the back which turns into a gentle push in the direction of his bedroom. 

Emma waits for his door to shut behind him before addressing Killian, not bothering to hide her confusion. 

“Where are you going?”

Killian doesn’t meet her eyes. “My brother’s place.”

Emma’s eyebrows climb up to her hairline. “Your brother who lives in _Maine?_ ” When he doesn’t immediately respond, she places her hands on her hips and demands an explanation. “Killian, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t hesitate for even half a second. “I’m getting this boy the _hell_ away from his father. That selfish, _despicable_ excuse for a human being.” The force of his tone and the violence of his words surprises her, and if his voice cracks in a somewhat agitated fashion towards the end then she chooses not to comment on it. 

“Wait — hold on,” she says, trying to grasp just what has him wound so tight, “what happened?”

Like she’s stepped on a mine, Killian explodes. 

“He _left_ him!” he bursts, throwing an arm out in fury. “Last night he left Henry at the Rabbit Hole thinking I would be on shift. I wasn’t. He didn’t _check_. He didn’t even walk into the bloody building with him!” Emma’s jaw drops. “I’d switched my phone off so no one could get hold of me and he spent the night with my boss and his daughter. He has gone _too far_ this time.”

Horrified, Emma’s gaze has immediately flown to the closed door of Henry’s bedroom. She can’t even imagine it. She’d left the pair of them the night before, assured that the kid would be in safe hands with his father and she hadn’t even spared it a second thought — and there was Henry, apparently staying in a stranger’s home until Killian could be contacted. It makes her skin crawl just thinking about it, waves of guilt spreading from her gut. 

“That’s…” she struggles to find words, “oh my god.”

“It’s beastly,” Killian bites, “it’s _unforgivable_.”

Emma can understand where Killian’s fury is coming from, she’s already beginning to move past the shock and into a place nearer his position, but at least one of them has to be the voice of reason, even if she’d rather be anything but.

“It is,” it’s a lot more than beastly and a mile past forgivable, “but whatever Neal’s done you can’t just — just kidnap his son and whisk him off to Maine.” 

“It’s not a kidnap, it’s a — a rescue. I don’t know. I’m well within my rights,” he defends himself fiercely, his eyes a startlingly vibrant shade of sapphire as they lock onto hers. “Legally I’m half the lad’s guardian too. And I say he shouldn’t be around someone that — that —” He looks fit to erupt again, letting out a noise of frustration. “That _irresponsible_. That unfeeling! He can’t be left here again Emma, he can’t.”

“Look, you’re pissed off and I get that, I am too, but just take a minute to think about this.” 

She can already imagine Neal’s reaction, can project the situation spiralling out of control. The carefully accomplished balance the family had found not a week before is little more than dust underfoot, the foundations blasted to smithereens. It’s the most they can do to try and keep a level head in the aftermath.

“I _am_ thinking about it,” he says, “it’s why I’m here. Come with us, Swan.”

Emma’s heart shudders to a stop, her stomach flipping in ways that are entirely inappropriate for the situation. “You can’t be serious.”

“Come with me.” In moments she can’t remember passing he’s standing dead in front of her, head stooped only slightly so she can’t avoid meeting his eye, acknowledging the sincerity there that cuts through her like a molten knife through steel. “Help me give Henry a life he _deserves_. His best chance, a family who won’t let him down, who put him first.”

His heart is so big, and she feels so very small. “In Maine?”

“Anywhere.”

She knows what he’s asking for, what he’s hoping for. She just doesn’t know if she’s ready. Her mouth opens and closes twice, but no sound comes out. Killian takes her hands in both of his and she’s surprised by the steadiness of his grip — while his entire body hums with energy, in his hands at least he will carry her. She clutches on tighter than she should. 

“You’ve already said you don’t love Neal,” he says gently, and it’s a vague reminder that Killian doesn’t even know they’ve officially parted yet. “You’re here for Henry. He adores you and I — I care for you,” his eyes dart between both of hers, “very much.”

“Killian,” Emma makes to withdraw, shaking her head, “don’t.” 

His urgency hasn’t waned, and neither has his grip on her hands. “Let’s give him the childhood we never had. Come _with_ us.”

She doesn’t know what it is — probably the fact that the entire encounter has sprung from nowhere, that she’s on the back foot, but she can’t quite connect with him the way he’s trying to. She tries to imagine a life with him and Henry in some small town in Maine but it’s as if someone is pulling a velvet curtain down in front of it, she can’t grasp the mirage for long enough to feel secure. She can’t. Not with Neal’s presence in their lives, not with every other pounding complication that make a decision like this _selfish_. She tries to convey this in her rueful gaze as best she can as her hands slip out of his. 

“This is… I can’t condone this.” No matter what he’s done, Neal is Henry’s father. Trying to sneak away in the night isn’t the way to solve this. “Talk to Neal.”

Killian holds her eyes for two seconds more, three. When she doesn’t move an inch his shoulders droop, and he takes a step back from her. It isn’t what he wanted — she can’t give him what he did. Not like this. 

“I’ve tried,” he answers her bitterly, “if he would ever answer his damn phone he’d know where we’re going. I’ve left him a message saying he can come collect his boy when he’s ready to pull himself together and act responsibly.” 

“So you’ll just stay in Maine, what, indefinitely?” Killian shrugs in response, and it amazes Emma that he can have put so little consideration into this, so driven by an instinct to protect. How can someone be so fiercely selfless yet infinitely thoughtless? “What about his school?”

“It’s a week from summer break, he’s six.” He seems almost irritated that she’s picking him up on such a detail, eyebrows tugging together in a frown. “It’s not like he’ll miss anything important.”

Emma resists the urge to tug at her hair in frustration. “Killian, come on.” 

At that moment the door to Henry’s bedroom creaks open. “Killun?” There Henry stands with a little rucksack, his crocodile toy poking out the side where he couldn’t quite pull the zipper all the way around. 

“Hey, bug. You all packed?”

He toddles towards them and Emma realises his storybook is tucked under one arm. “I couldn’t fit my book.”

“It’s alright, we can just carry it.” 

He turns his sharp brown eyes to Emma. “Is Emma coming?” 

She resists the urge to acknowledge the final, hopeful look Killian sends in her direction. “I… Can’t. Sorry kid.” Henry looks crestfallen, in that soft little way only he can. “Have, um, have fun on your holiday.” 

In an instant he’s crossed so he’s standing in front of her, and he pushes the book into her stomach. Instinctively Emma’s hands reach up to take it. 

“I want you to have this.” 

Emma shakes her head fiercely. “Henry, I couldn’t.” 

“There’s no room,” he insists, “you have to.”

And all at once, it isn’t about the book. She can see it in his face, in the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheek. She feels moisture begin to pool at the corner of her eyes and she tries not to think about this being the last time she’s ever going to see him, but she reaches out a hand to ghost down his cheek all the same. Henry leans into her touch, looking up at her imploringly. 

_How is she going to live without this little boy?_

“Thank you,” she says weakly. Henry’s arms go round her middle and she holds him tightly. 

After a few moments, Killian softly calls him away. 

“If you change your mind,” he says, once they’re by the door and he’s watching her with the big, sad eyes that she can scarcely bare, “you know where to find us.” 

The door to Neal’s apartment closes quickly behind them because she can’t bear to watch them go hand in hand towards the stairwell. 

In another life, she thinks. 

In another life that might’ve been hers without the unfairness.

It’s the first time, and last, that she weeps so openly in a home that isn’t hers. 

-/-

“Could you sit in your seat properly please, bug. I’m not asking twice.” 

The little boy can’t help it — his face and hands are pressed against the glass window, watching in pure wonder as the scenery rockets past. It’s his first time on a train and he is absolutely enamoured by the speed of the vehicle, rattling off a thousand questions to Killian that he finds himself making up half the answers to just to leave him satisfied. 

“Henry.” 

The lad suddenly realises he’s being spoken to and withdraws, falling back into his seat but leaving his palm glued to the surface of the glass and Killian can’t hold back a smile. Henry had taken the story of a holiday with surprising ease, and it wasn’t like he was lying to him. He _was_ planning on this being temporary, just something to frighten Neal enough into bucking up and making the right decisions in future — although how he’d know that had happened he was still unsure on. He’d made Killian legally half Henry’s guardian, and he was about to realise that meant from now on somebody would be constantly holding him accountable for his actions. 

Killian had pre-emptively booked the week off work (Jefferson’s connection to the situation left him fortunately very understanding), and informed his brother he would be staying at his summer house for a few days. Liam didn’t actually live in Storybrooke, not anymore, but he’d invested enough into his little cabin by the water that he was just waiting for a buyer with just the right price to come along. Until then, it stood empty and unoccupied and the perfect escape for his brother and a six-year-old. 

_God_. He can still remember switching his phone on the morning after the day of the carnival. He’d never been so frightened in his entire life. 

He’d been so pissed at Neal for that one spiteful remark, so unbelievably dejected, he’d called in sick and turned his phone off so his friend wouldn’t be able to contact him with some half-assed, grovelling apology. 

(He also didn’t want to see any reassuring texts from Emma, either. In his fragile emotional state he wasn’t sure he could handle them.) 

All that had happened was he’d had a few swigs of rum and gone to bed early, completely unaware of the bustle of activity down at the Rabbit Hole trying to find Henry a bed for the night. 

His blood chills just thinking about it.

A flood of messages came in from both Robin and Jefferson, even a handful from Will, all demanding that he get back in touch and offering him fragments of information about what had occurred — it had taken less than twenty seconds to piece together the story and half that for him to ring up Jefferson and demand to know if the boy was alright. 

He’d been so petrified, clinging to Henry so tightly once he’d collected him that he’d almost entirely forgotten to thank his boss for his kindness.

Once the concern had passed, then came the fury. 

Neal, as usual, didn’t pick up his phone. Killian had walked around his flat in a state of suspended irritation, a lightning rod of negative energy that not even Henry’s steadying presence had been able to assuage, and he slowly talked himself into taking Henry out of town, getting him out of the toxicity and the danger. Never before had he seen Neal as a threat like this, a threat to his son’s wellbeing. Killian just couldn’t picture any scenario where he trusted the man enough to hand the six-year-old back — so he’d gone to Neal’s apartment hoping to speak to him, and when it became clear he really had flown back out to fuck knew where he’d demanded Henry pack a bag and get ready to go. 

Of course, in his perfect outcome, Emma would have agreed to go with them. 

His mind is a jumble of reliving the worst morning of his life. Picking up Henry, taking a chance on Emma. Falling flat on his face in front of Emma. More than anything, he’s certain he came across just as irresponsible as Neal is with his flippant disregard for things like school — but _how_ can he be thinking about something so trivial when something this earth-shattering has happened? Henry was _alone_. That’s more important than any school curriculum. 

_I can’t condone this. Talk to Neal._

It’s not like he didn’t try.

“Where are we going again?” Henry chirps, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Storybrooke,” he answers automatically. 

“Storybrooke,” Henry tests the word on his tongue, “is it nice there?”

Killian smiles. “The nicest.” 

“Does it have a castle?” 

The elder man shrugs, although he’s pretty certain a castle like the kind Henry’s thinking of doesn’t exist within the town. “Dunno. Maybe we’ll find one.” 

This seems to thrill him to no end, and he’s all but buzzing in his seat as he kneels up to touch his nose back to the window.

Killian lets out a long suffering sigh, reaching forward to tug on Henry’s shoe so he sits back down properly again. 

It’s a simple case of catching a train to Brunswick, then a short bus across a few towns to Storybrooke. He’s done it many a time previous, back before Liam moved to Canada with his girlfriend. He’d always associated the little town with a sense of freedom, of escape — perhaps it’s appropriate that this is where they run to. It utterly fascinates Henry, from the moment Killian lifts him off the train he’s bounding from place to place, pointing out all the things that are different to Boston. 

Killian wonders if he’s ever breathed air cleaner than this. He can’t ever remember either he or Neal taking the boy for a holiday outside of the city. 

It’s the size of the buildings that awes him the most, almost all of them being only one or two storeys. Sunlight stretches across Main Street in a way it simply can’t in Dorchester, and Henry’s skipping along in front of him with his arms spread wide as Killian wheels his suitcase in one hand and carries Henry’s rucksack in the other. It’s worth it, he reckons. To lift the weight that had begun to linger around that boy’s eyes. 

“You could ride your bike _everywhere_ here,” he says, dazedly. 

“That I could.” 

Liam’s cabin lies near the outskirts of town, only a stone’s throw from the harbour. The key is buried in a flowerbed just under the sitting room window just as Liam had informed him it would be, and it takes him only a struggle less than half a minute long to wrench the old lock open. Henry bounds in first, wanting to take it all in. 

The cabin is rustic in its feel, lots of lace coverings on tabletops and doilies — it’s altogether far daintier than Killian remembers it being, but he suspects that might be Elsa’s late influence rather than Liam’s choice. The ground floor consists of a small kitchen blended into a sitting area with two sofas and a small coffee table angled towards a wide, open window that faces the bay. Upstairs there are only two bedrooms to be found, one equipped with a double bed and the other without, and although Henry guns for the former Killian argues for his size and carries the lad into the latter, dumping him unceremoniously onto the bed amidst giggles and protests which settles the matter. 

It’s a home, of sorts. It’s something that’ll do for now. 

Although Killian could do with a couple of hours to recover from the journey, Henry is eager not to waste any time and he doesn’t have the heart to tell the boy there isn’t necessarily a time stamp on this ‘holiday’. So he allows himself to be tugged out the door to explore the town — dutifully, he shows Henry all the landmarks and they spend considerable time at the library in the clock tower, chatting with Belle the librarian. The animated conversation between the two book aficionados lasts long enough for Henry’s arms to become laden with new ones, all fairy-tales, and in the face of his parting with his beloved book Killian doesn’t complain when he is enlisted to help carry them back to their cabin, stopping only to purchase some groceries to stock the house. 

Their view from the sitting room window encompasses the bay and part of the harbour, they’re but fifty yards from the sand that gives way to the sea and the wooden stairs that lift up into the dock. It was here that Liam taught Killian to sail, here that Killian taught Milah the same. 

She doesn’t weigh on his mind in the same way she did on most of his other visits following her death. Although he can still see her strolling along the boardwalk, shoes in hand, head turned so she can smile at him over shoulder, she doesn’t carry that note of melancholy that used to lurk above her head. And with Henry barrelling into him whenever he begins to stare out the window for too long, the mirage of her vanishes as quickly as it arrives. 

The next morning he cooks French toast and Henry decorates them with apple slices and chocolate spread in the shape of smiley faces, and after breakfast they pack a picnic and decide to spend the day at the beach. The brine of the sea air and the tickle of sand between his toes is familiar to Killian but utterly astounding to Henry, who amuses himself for the first hour running as far down the beach as he dares before sprinting back up as the tide comes rushing around his ankles. 

They clamber over rock pools and examine their contents, two intrepid explorers tentatively avoiding getting their fingers nipped by crabs as they reach for starfish, sticking their tongues out at each other when they encounter something slimy instead. As pirates they band together to search for buried treasure, discovering three dollars, a bottle cap, an expired bus ticket and a nickel. 

“Can you hear the sea?” Killian asks, pressing a shell up against Henry’s ear. 

The boy frowns in concentration. “Yes,” he says thoughtfully and Killian smiles, “but I think it’s because it’s right _there_.” Killian’s eyes follow the direction he’s pointing in, to the nearby tide, and he roars with laughter. 

Around midday they stop for lunch, Henry munching on cucumber sandwiches and onion rings as he carefully buries Killian’s feet below the sand. When he doesn’t finish the last of his picnic, Killian motions to the two remaining onion rings with a raised eyebrow. 

“We have to save them,” Henry says, with that perfect nonchalance only a child can master, “they’re Emma’s favourite.” 

So you’ll just stay in Maine, what, indefinitely? 

He has to admire the lad’s optimism. If he stays close, maybe he can at least absorb some of his light. 

“You really like her, don’t you bug?” 

“I love her.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” Sometimes Killian forgets Henry gives his love like he gives his smiles — recklessly, honestly and without restraint. Still, he can’t think of a figure more deserving. When Henry nods Killian breathes in deeply through his nose, squinting against the sun as he looks out across the water. 

“Me too.” 

As a king and a prince they build their castle from sand, stacking up the turrets and poking holes in for windows, digging a trench all around which they cautiously fill with water to serve as a moat. When Henry accidentally knocks down the north tower Killian carries him out into the ocean, threatening to dunk him under the surface of the water unless he yields. Henry covers up Killian’s eyes, and when he trips on a piece of seaweed they both go crashing into the waves. 

Time slips past. 

By the time the sun begins to touch the water, casting orange and pink light dancing across the sky, the pair of them are soaked and Henry is beginning to shiver, so Killian bundles him up in the two towels and they head for home. He can feel the salt from the ocean slowly drying on his skin and his clothes are stuck to him and won’t budge — something that only makes him self-conscious once he realises who is sitting slumped on their doorstep with a duffel bag by her feet. 

“Emma!” Henry squeals with delight, discarding the towels and sprinting straight for her. 

Emma’s entire face lights up and she opens her arms, lifting Henry clean into the air and holding him close — only to immediately pull him away again with a wrinkle of her nose. “You are _drenched_. And you smell like — have you been in the ocean?” 

“We built a sandcastle and we found three dollars and a bottle cap and a starfish but we didn’t keep the starfish because Killun said it would get lonely away from all the other starfish — and I saved you some onion rings! Do you want to see my room?” Henry speaks with great speed as Emma puts him down, and she practically glows with how pleased she is to see him. 

“I’d love to see your room.” 

Scampering around her, Henry makes to open the front door and disappears inside. 

Left alone, Emma turns back to Killian and looks as apprehensive as he’s ever seen her. She fidgets, rubbing her hands in front of her as she lifts one of her shoulders in a half shrug. 

“I know I, um, I said some things. I hope this is okay, I just —” 

Killian doesn’t let her finish, crossing the short space between them in three quick strides, cradling her head with both hands and lowering his lips to meet hers. Emma sighs into him, one hand finding his elbow and tugging him closer, the other reaching for him so she can brush her fingers against the shell of his cheek. It’s soft, languid, each running into the other without urgency, and it’s just as perfect as he’d ever imagined it might be. After all this time, it’s perfect. Because she’s _here_ and she wants to be and they have Henry and a little cabin and for once, just this once, he can’t poke a single hole in any of it. For once, it all feels like his. 

It’s only when they hear Henry’s hollered demand of what’s keeping them that they break apart, both sporting shy but broad smiles. 

“Of course it’s okay,” he says gently, worried any more vigorous affirmation might still spook her. “I’m so glad you’re here.” 

Emma presses her forehead to his, sighing contentedly. “Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.” 

This, he doesn’t disagree with. 

It takes only a little more urging from Henry before Killian has picked up her bag and escorted her inside. He surrenders the master bedroom to her and offers to take the couch, and she looks so tired she doesn’t bother protesting. 

“Kid, I brought you something,” Emma says, waving Henry over. When she lifts _Once Upon a Time_ from her duffel bag, Henry beams at her like she’s just hung the stars. Killian can’t stop smiling. 

The evening is whittled away on a dinner for three and several hundred games of rummy, the adults insisting Henry keeps cheating despite his vehement denials during his winning streak — when the queen of hearts falls rather clumsily from his sleeve, all three are in uproar. Killian chases Henry shrieking across the cabin while Emma clutches her sides and howls with laughter, and when he catches him and carries him back to her she accepts the gift of the squirming boy and the way his hand lingers on hers, about to deliver a stern talk on the pitfalls of cheating at cards. 

(It’s only when the boy reveals it was Killian who taught him that particular method of card manipulation that the tables really turn.) 

The six-year-old is put to bed exhausted but content, and both Killian and Emma drop feather-light kisses to his forehead before they turn off the light. 

“Does he know?” Emma asks once they are back downstairs, washing the dishes. “Why you’re here, that is.” 

Killian shrugs as he rinses a plate. “I don’t think so. But the lad isn’t stupid — he knows his father did a bad thing the other night. It’s just a matter of putting two and two together.” Emma nods and accepts the plate, wiping it dry with the dishcloth. They work well as a unit, they always have; an unspoken element of trust and understanding there unlike everything she’s ever experienced. She’s never met somebody who sets her alight and relaxes her in the same breath. 

“What made you change your mind?” he asks, and it draws her from her thoughts. 

Emma doesn’t know quite how to answer him — she’s not entirely sure she knows the answer herself. All she knows is she spent a day killing time with August and all she’d been able to think of was where else she could be, who else she could be with. Her friend meant more to her than a lot of things, but the idea that there was something out there, something _more_ waiting for her a few states away; it had been too powerful for her to resist. She’d packed a bag and bundled into her old bug less than half an hour after she made the decision. 

"I've spent a lot of my life running away from things," she starts hesitantly, "responsibilities, the people who care about me. Chances to be selfish and get what I want because I thought I didn't deserve it." She sighs, placing a plate away in a drawer. "I guess I'm fed up of letting the assholes get the monopoly on selfishness. I want to be happy." 

Killian’s smile is something soft, grateful. Reverent. She’s struck by the sudden realisation that he’s still counting his blessings, still unsure if she’s going to stay. 

“I want this,” she says, and the warmth in his deep blue eyes only bolsters her. “I want this with Henry and with — with you. I don’t want you to doubt that.” 

I want a family. 

“I won’t,” he assures her, dropping a brief, chaste kiss to her mouth, “I promise.” 

It feels like something they both want to explore; life is racing out in front of them but they’re in no hurry — not while Henry sleeps soundly upstairs. No, she’s content with stolen glances and lingering touches, all bearing that tingle of a promise they can’t wait to fulfil. They have time, they have as much of it as they choose. 

The air is buoyed by ocean brine and anticipation, and Emma is invincible. 

-/- 

They spend the next day at the beach, too. The tide has washed away their keep and the entire south end of the castle, so Henry immediately enlists Emma in setting things to rights. In the process it almost doubles in size, spanning a good few metres across the beach. It’s when Henry realises he’s allowed a foreign princess to learn the secret schematics of their entire fortress that he realises he’s made a grave error — even Princess Emma, the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming, could be a loose cannon at times. 

(“Henry, I promise I won’t tell.” 

“You can’t possibly know what you’d say under torture! You might sell us out to the sea witch for protection against Rumpelstiltskin!” 

“Rumpawhonow?”) 

He demands Princess Emma must marry into their kingdom to secure her silence, specifically Sandhaven’s King, and in one of the most awkward ceremonies Killian has ever experienced Henry binds his and Emma’s hands together with a rather flaccid piece of seaweed and declares them husband and wife before all the realms. Mercifully he doesn’t insist they kiss, but if the smug, pointed look on his face once he finishes is any indication, Killian can’t help but wonder if he is altogether far more aware of what he is doing than they realise. 

He can’t complain. Emma’s thumb has been drawing gentle circles on the back of his hand and he gives her a tentative squeeze she quickly returns. When she finally turns to look at him it amazes him how quickly his stomach can still somersault until it’s lying somewhere beneath his feet. Henry has since departed to chase the rush and retreat of the waves, and Killian uses their brief reprieve to steal a kiss. 

This must be happiness, he thinks, this peace that has utterly overwhelmed him. He finally understands the endless hours of faith that Henry places in fairy-tales, because here is one of his own — a castle, a princess, and a boy who stands by the sea. 

-/- 

“You said you know how to sail,” Henry says much later, lying with his head on Emma’s lap although he directs the statement at Killian. 

“That I did,” he says, taking a sip from the bottle of water they brought with them. 

“Can you teach me to sail?” 

Killian shrugs, throwing a glance at Emma. She too gives a barely perceptible rise of her shoulders. “I don’t see why not,” he says. “You’d have to do everything I told you.” 

Henry sits up in his eagerness, but picks up Emma’s hand to keep playing with her fingers. “I can do that!” 

“Alright,” Killian grins, “I’ll talk to the harbourmaster tomorrow, we’ll see if we can get Liam’s old yacht out of storage.” 

This delights Henry to no end, who rambles endlessly about their imminent seafaring adventure for the rest of the day and well into the night. They order pizza and watch a film, and if Henry notices he isn’t the only one with his head resting on Killian’s shoulder, well. He chooses not to mention it. 

-/- 

The sitting room is suddenly flooded with light and it wakes Killian, blinking groggily and reaching up a hand to shield his eyes. A dazed glance at his phone informs him it’s 1:54am and he rubs his eyes tiredly. The light is streaming in from the outside, and he is about to throw back the blanket of the makeshift bed and see if he can’t identify the source when he’s distracted by a thundering of footsteps on the stairs. He turns to see Henry rocketing the distance from the staircase to the front door, reaching for the latch and throwing it open with barely a glance in his direction. 

“Henry?” Killian asks, alarmed and suddenly wide awake. He makes immediately to follow after him, but hears Emma taking the stairs two at a time and he barely even acknowledges the threadbare nightwear she’s sporting as he’s too distracted by the grim look on her face. 

“It’s Neal.” 

They’re both outside in a matter of seconds, just in time to watch Neal Cassidy step out of his car (the headlights still on full glare) and scoop up the little boy in his pyjamas. 

“Surprise!” he says gleefully, lifting him well into the air amid little noises of delight as he presses a kiss to the side of his head. “If it isn’t my little guy, my little beach guy. How you doing?” 

Killian and Emma stand in front of the doorway, a good ten paces or so back, both uncertain as to whether they should move. That familiar tension has settled itself between Killian’s shoulders, and all he can think of is the look of pure relief on Henry’s face the morning he came to pick him up from Jefferson’s home. Neal left him. Coming to collect him now doesn’t change that. But he is also well aware of the undetermined nature of their interactions now — he had taken Henry and left the city without Neal’s consent. Emma, his soon-to-be ex-wife, had driven over two-hundred miles to join them. 

It would be easy for Neal to play the victim card. He’s never had better reason. 

Neal acknowledges their presence with only a hard glare in their direction as he’s putting Henry back down, so brief the boy couldn’t have noticed itbefore his father’s full attention was back on him. 

“So I’m heading out to Hawaii tomorrow and I got _you_ a ticket to come with me,” he says, tapping Henry on the nose, “and I found this really nice girl with a dog and she can look after you while I’m at work, and then after that we can go to a _real_ beach and do all kinds of cool stuff. What do you think?” 

“What kind of dog?” 

“Uh,” Neal shrugs, “I dunno. I managed to fix things so our flight could go from Augusta but it’s a long drive so if you wanna say goodbye to these guys you better hurry up.” 

Killian’s heart has crawled excruciatingly painfully into his throat, watching the exchange with something akin to resigned horror. He was going to take him. He had shown up in the middle of the night and he was going to take his son and there wasn’t a shred of anything Killian could do. And it was only then he realised the true foolishness of what he had done; after bringing Henry all the way up here without his father’s go-ahead, it probably wouldn’t be too difficult for the man to build a custody case against him. To take his son back permanently. 

He could lose the boy forever; this was what Emma had tried to warn him against. 

Propelled by this terrifying knowledge, he makes to step forward and see if he can insert himself into the situation, stop Neal just _taking_ him, but in a shot Emma has hold of his hand and is squeezing tightly. One glance back at her verifies what she wants to convey with a small shake of her head — he can’t. They can’t intervene, not when Neal is well within his rights. 

No matter what he did, Neal was always going to be Henry’s father. Neal could beckon and Henry could follow and there wasn’t a damn thing Killian could do about it. 

Henry turns to look over at Emma and Killian, and Killian feels himself wanting to strain against Emma, gripping her hand far tighter than is necessary. The boy looks pensive, and Neal urges him on. 

“Go on, go ahead. We gotta get going.” 

But Henry doesn’t immediately say goodbye to them as instructed, playing with his fingers in front of him and looking as small as he can. Hope, that treacherous notion, stutters to life within Killian. 

“Or you can just come to the car with daddy and come see this present I got you, would you like that?” 

Henry bites his lip before he finally speaks. 

“I want to meet the dog but maybe the day after?” 

_Jesus._

Neal frowns, shaking his head. “We can’t do the day after, buddy. I need to work. Come on.” He holds out a hand for the little boy to take, but Henry remains rooted to the spot throwing looks between Killian and Neal. 

It isn’t fair. Both, he’s always had both. He’s never had to choose between Neal and Killian before, it isn’t a choice that any child that young should have to make. It’s only made the sourer by the outcome he’s sure is going to play out. 

“We’re supposed to go on a boat tomorrow,” Henry confesses quietly, and Killian’s breath catches. 

He can also see Neal getting impatient. “You can go on a boat anytime, bud. They got tons in Hawaii. It’s not a big deal, we need to go.” He takes a few steps away from him, in the direction of his car. “C’mon Henry.” 

Henry still doesn’t move, cowering from the required immediacy of a decision. 

“Henry,” Neal continues sternly, “come _on_.” The little boy continues to crumple in on himself and Emma is clinging just as desperately to Killian as he is to her in an attempt to keep themselves anchored to each other. They both want nothing more than to rush forward and assuage his concerns, but they can’t. 

The rush and fall of the tide is the backdrop to their paralysis. 

When the usually talkative, animated Henry continues to stand there in silence, Neal throws up his hands in exasperation. “ _God_ , what is it? Did you just decide you don’t like me anymore, is that it?” He paces a few steps across the path, throwing his arm out in the direction of Emma and Killian. “You prefer those guys now? Offer you a boat trip and you’re won over, huh?” When his final question comes out loud and accusatory Henry flinches, clenching his shoulders. Sputtering in disbelief, Neal continues; “what, are you _scared_ of me?” 

Henry shuts his eyes tight and bows his head. 

Killian can’t bear it a moment longer and steps forward, but Emma holds him back — she’s already seen that which he just noticed. 

The effect on Neal was instantaneous. 

“Oh,” he breathes out, immediately dropping to his knees in front of Henry and taking hold of the front of his pyjama shirt, “oh man, I’m sorry. Henry I’m sorry, I don’t want you to be scared. I’m an… I’m a massive idiot.” He flounders, rubbing a hand over his face in abject shame. Even from ten paces away, the scattered beams of Neal’s car illuminate the added shimmer to the surface of his eyes, the moisture pooling there. “Hey, Henry,” he murmurs, and Killian is straining his ears to hear, “I really love you. I love you so much.” 

Henry swallows and nods slowly. Silence stretches at Neal clutches at him, running his hands over his shoulders, brushing his thumbs over the apples of his cheeks. Trying to memorize everything about his little boy. 

Killian can’t shake the feeling that they’re witnessing something monumental. Even the sea is bent forward, listening intently. 

Neal’s voice is hushed when he speaks again, awed. 

“And you know what?” he continues after some pause. “Can I tell you something?” He wipes the corner of his eye, taking a deep breath. “A long time ago I was _just_ like you.” This he punctuates with a light prod at his chest. “I had a — a papa who didn’t know… how to recognise when he wasn’t what was best for me anymore. Who loved me,” he looks down, “but didn’t know how to put me first.” 

His fingers are playing with the buttons of Henry’s pyjama shirt, yearning for some form of contact but uncertain what to do once he has it. That’s how Neal has always been. Wanting, always wanting, and never satisfied with what he has. Starved from his very first breath, Killian’s understanding is he never learnt to be content. His father had been the same. He’d torn apart a family out of a misguided understanding of what being a parent entailed and Neal had never recovered. 

Maybe his son wouldn’t have to be the same. 

Neal takes a steadying breath. “You wanna go on a boat tomorrow?” Henry nods mutely, and Neal finally turns his eyes in the direction of the two taut onlookers by the cabin. “You… wanna stay with them for a while?” Henry, too, follows the line of his gaze, and nods again just once. 

Killian feels as if his legs are about to give way beneath him. 

Was he _really_ seeing what he thought he was seeing? 

“You, um,” Neal’s words have become fragile and insecure, quivering with the uneven rise and fall of his chest, “you know who your daddy is, right?” 

Henry smiles, something soft and reassuring. He reaches out a hand to tap Neal’s nose in a mirror of the earlier action. 

“ _You._ ” 

Neal’s answering grin is watery at best. “Okay,” he lets out a long breath, “alright.” Wiping his eyes, he reaches for Henry’s hand and clutches tight. “How about we, uh, go open your present and then see about getting you back to bed, hm?” 

As the boy totters after his father, Killian can scarcely believe what just happened. 

Emma releases his hand and he distractedly realises it is a little sore from being clutched so tightly, but he still seeks out her touch, arm lingering around the small of her back as he watches the father and son in the car. His mind is numb. He can’t tell if any decision made is definitive, or correct, but in the warm darkness of early summer in Maine, something in the ground has shifted. Neal has given them something he never would have expected. Henry has _asked_ for something that none of them realised he was mature enough to want. 

When Henry jogs back over to them it’s Emma who rushes out to meet him, lifting him into her arms and brushing the stray strands of hair from his forehead. Killian only has eyes for the man left behind. 

Visibly upset but maintaining a tight lid on it, Neal gives him only a stiff nod before he ducks back into his car and begins his reverse up the driveway. 

“What’ve you got there, kid?” Emma was saying, and Henry produces Neal’s parting gift with a flourish. 

“Is it a pen?” Killian asks, examining it closely. 

“It’s a quill,” Henry says proudly, slipping it out the box. “Daddy says it’s magic. It’s for telling stories.” He tests the blank ink out on the palm of his head. “He says I have to write him a happy ending.” 

Killian turns his gaze back in the direction of the retreating car, something sweet and sad tugging at the chords of his heart. As he reaches forward and pulls both Emma and Henry into a bone-crushing hug, Killian likes to think his own happy ending probably looks a little like this. 

-/- 

They stay in Storybrooke for two weeks, and they go sailing every other day. By the time they pack for home Henry has proved himself a most worthy first mate, and Killian makes no secret of it. For two weeks they haven’t thought about anything like custody arrangements, legal disputes or arguments over Henry’s wellbeing. Neal has called twice in that time, wanting to talk to Henry, and whatever they discuss the little boy keeps close to his chest. Killian doesn’t know what’s to come, he has no idea what sort of ride they’re in for. 

But when he has the wind at his back, Emma’s arm around his middle and Henry’s scrupulous focus on the wheel of Liam’s baby _Jewel_ , it’s easy not to think about those things. It’s even easier to just lose themselves to the ocean spray and the scent of the sea and the flutter of the sail and the way their cheeks flush when they laugh. 

It’s this moment he wishes to protect. To put it in his pocket and keep it so he can return to it in any future times of trouble, of uncertainty. A little slice of happily ever after. 

This sanctuary, this harbour, in the midst of every storm the skies can conjure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing with an idea for an epilogue - thoughts? :)


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! so this took a long time, apologies for that! basically I started an epilogue which was something of a "day in the life" kind of story, but I've since made the decision to expand this 'verse into a series and have shelved that to use as a one-shot at somepoint in the near future. so here I am with a totally different kind of epilogue, and I hope you guys enjoy!

Henry Cassidy isn’t sure how old he was when he realised just how unconventional his upbringing had been. Somewhere between learning to pronounce Killian’s name properly and becoming wary of the words ‘ _I promise_ ’ falling from his father’s lips, he imagines. 

Of his earliest memories he knows the faces of Neal Cassidy and Killian Jones dominate, as do the backs of office doors and silhouettes of anonymous carers, scattered crayons and the fatigued pages of beloved fairy-tales. He remembers the Rabbit Hole, the dark crimson lighting the gloomy setting for many an adventure involving creeping past the bar, the rude jokes Will Scarlet would beg him to repeat later and the vivid pink concoctions Killian would conjure up just for him. He remembers his room in Killian’s old apartment, the day it became _his_ room — when he was six-years-old and Killian sheepishly confessed he would be staying there for the next ten days, and he’d taken the liberty of moving in a few of his favourite books, although he’d taken out the old lamp even though it belonged to the Milah he was meant to marry because he knew Henry found it scary. He remembers sitting alone at parent-teacher conferences and playing with the pens on the edge of Miss Blanchard’s desk. He remembers being with his father at Franklin Park, sitting perched atop his shoulders as they blew kisses and made funny faces at the giraffes. 

He remembers Emma Swan. 

He remembers Emma Swan and how scared she was to touch him. He remembers how she made him pancakes for the mornings he awoke to find his father gone, he remembers every afternoon she was _never_ late picking him up from school. He remembers Emma Swan and the courage she managed to muster, the bravery she found inside herself, the moment she decided she would no longer be _nothing_.

He remembers the day she drove two-hundred miles just to be with him again. To be with him and Killian.

He remembers the way the ocean had crashed against the sand, the way the lights from his father’s car had cast long, petrifying shadows across the dirt and up to the house. He remembers Killian and Emma clinging to each other tightly and he remembers the way his heart had pounded against his ribcage while fear had clutched at him like ice. He remembers making his father cry.

Henry Cassidy remembers the moment he realised, somewhere in his youthful heart, that although he loved his father with all he had, he could never fully rely on him. 

And more than anything, Henry had wanted to be safe.

He remembers the months that had followed, moving back into Killian’s apartment, watching with wonder as he and Emma Swan fell in love. _Real_ love, not like the way his father had loved her with half of his heart and one hand behind his back. He remembers waiting for his father to pick him up only for him to never come, he remembers his seventh birthday and the cake and the streamers and the teary phone call from the only person in the world who couldn’t make it past their shame to come. 

He remembers the next time he saw him, four months after a beach in Maine. 

_I just wanted to… decide, how I wanted us to be, going forward. How to do what’s best for you. I actually, um, got a job offer for something more stable, so I wouldn’t be travelling nearly as much — but it’s based in New York and I’ve been beating myself up about what…_

He remembers the way his eyes had shone like starlight. 

_You know what I’m trying to say, right buddy? I want you to stay here. With Killian. I want you to live with Killian for always and I want to know if you think that’s okay._

Life moved quickly, after that. 

Neal started living in New York and he visited whenever he could or Henry could go to him if his schedule was bad but the timing was good, and Killian kept working at the Rabbit Hole and he’d spend his nights with Grace in Jefferson’s apartment above the bar and after a year Emma moved in and when he was eight they bought him his first bicycle and he broke his arm playing soccer when he was ten and that summer he spent three weeks in California on holiday with Neal and another two in Storybrooke where he perfected his sailing technique and when he was thirteen Killian let him take out the _Jewel_ by himself with Roland who always looked at him like he was God’s gift to the earth and Emma introduced him to August who taught him how to write and when he started high school Neal moved to California permanently and it was hard and it hurt but they were okay — and he wrote _stories_ , and he dreamed them, and he lived them as they were committed to paper by a magic quill with the power to grant every deserving person a happy ending. 

He isn’t sure how old he was when he realised just how unconventional his upbringing had been. Somewhere between learning to pronounce Killian’s name properly and becoming wary of the words ‘ _I promise_ ’ falling from his father’s lips. 

But somewhere in there, Henry Cassidy had grown up safe. And that was all he’d ever wanted. 

-/-

Until it wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this epilogue also serves as a prologue to another three part story I've been working on based ten years in the future - you can find it on my author page! I will warn though, it's a lot angstier than this one with a much rougher road, but you know me; always a stickler for a happier ending. check it out if you so dare! 
> 
> and finally -- this fic has been nominated for 'Best Emma' and 'Best Modern AU' at the Captain Swan Fanfic Awards 2k16, and I'm so honoured that any of you guys thought to put this little thing forward. thank you so much! voting is open until January 8th, and if you felt so inclined you can do so here: http://csfanficawards.tumblr.com/
> 
> but mostly, thanks so much for sticking with me on this crazy ride. peace and love!

**Author's Note:**

> come say hey on tumblr! you can find me at captainjayharkness (dot) tumblr (dot) com.


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